


Underwater

by wanderwithme (wanderlustt)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex, Reader is a sports journalist, Romance, Sex, Smut, please read notes b4 proceeding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:22:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24394222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustt/pseuds/wanderwithme
Summary: "You're...really strange," you tell him, still studying his face of concentration and wondering why it is he's putting so much focus on something so minute. "Why are you so nice to me?""Because I like you."Oh.(In which you're a journalist sent to profile Ushijima Wakatoshi's journey of self-discovery, only to make a few discoveries of your own.)**COMPLETED!!
Relationships: Ushijima Wakatoshi/Original Female Character(s), Ushijima Wakatoshi/Reader
Comments: 172
Kudos: 626





	1. stutter start

**Author's Note:**

> a couple of housekeeping notes:  
> \--READER HAS A NAME. AND DESCRIPTION. AND A PERSONALITY. please don't @ me if you hate fully actualized characters because I WARNED YOU  
> \--as a former journalist, i feel like i have the pass to explore this very stupid trope in the spirit of being fully self-indulgent  
> \--I WROTE THIS FOR FUN, so i hope you have fun too. 
> 
> let's get this show on the road baby.

**subject** : new assignment – japan  
 **body** :

as you might infer from the subject line, you’re going to japan!

(congratulations!)

before we start celebrating, here’s what you need to know about your newest assignment (yes, i am painfully aware this pitch came up as a joke during our morning meeting, but the higher-ups got wind of it and _loved_ it, so here i am budgeting your next trip).

you’re going to be profiling **ushijima wakatoshi** who plays on _schweiden adlers_ , one of japan’s d1 volleyball teams. he’s kind of a big deal and his PR people have agreed to let us have all-access, which could be a good opportunity since the olympics are starting in a few months and he’s on the verge of qualifying for the national team. gotta strike while the iron’s hot, right?

i’m thinking two weeks for the profile, then another week for a follow-up. and if your boy makes it to the olympics, we’ll send you for another round of follow-ups.

thoughts? questions? concerns?

 **goro hiroshi  
** _senior editor @ weekly sports_

* * *

 **subject** : re: new assignment – japan  
 **body** :

am i getting assigned this story because I’m the only one in the office who's fluent in japanese

 **rin nakajima  
** _staff writer @ weekly sports_

* * *

 **subject** : re: re: new assignment – japan  
 **body** :

i’m afraid i’m not at liberty to answer that question

 **goro hiroshi  
** _senior editor @ weekly sports_

* * *

 **subject** : re: re: re: new assignment – japan  
 **body** :

ok i’m in.

maybe i’ll visit my granny in murata :)

 **rin nakajima  
** _staff writer @ weekly sports_

* * *

 **subject** : re: re: re: re: new assignment – japan  
 **body** :

keep in mind that’s not going to be budgeted for.

 **goro hiroshi  
** _senior editor @ weekly sports_

* * *

 **subject** : re: re: re: re: re: new assignment – japan  
 **body** :

are you budgeting for my first-class flight though? ;)

 **rin nakajima  
** _staff writer @ weekly sports_

* * *

 **subject** : re: re: re: re: re: re: new assignment – japan  
 **body** :

no

 **goro hiroshi  
** _senior editor @ weekly sports_

* * *

 **subject** : re: re: re: re: re: new assignment – japan  
 **body** :

damn. was worth a shot.

 **rin nakajima  
** _staff writer @ weekly sports_

* * *

 **subject** : re: re: re: re: re: re: new assignment – japan  
 **body** :

book your flight and finish the rest of your work at home. and please, _please_ , please don’t go overboard with the company card. $100/day per diem. if you’re taking someone out, _make sure you log it_ , otherwise it’s coming out of your pocket.

 **goro hiroshi  
** _senior editor @ weekly sports_

* * *

 **subject** : re: re: re: re: re: re: re: new assignment – japan  
 **body** :

;)

 **rin nakajima  
** _staff writer @ weekly sports_

* * *

 **subject** : re: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: new assignment – japan  
 **body** :

from henceforth i am putting a moratorium on the use of emojis in emails.

 **goro hiroshi  
** _senior editor @ weekly sports_

***

You land at midnight in Tokyo, taking two trains and two transfers to your assigned hotel in Ginza.

Only when your bed is within sight do you realize you’re in a whole different country, one that you haven’t been to in _years_. Traveling always has you running on autopilot, so pulling back the curtains of your room to the city lights brings you a punch of nostalgia so familiar you can feel your heart _stop dead._

“Wow.” You resist the urge to lie down, still covered in the dust and germs of 24-hour travel. “ _This is awesome_.”

But that doesn't begin to explain it: _I can't believe I'm here--I can't believe I'm back--I can't believe this is my life right now_.

Once you’re showered, you turn on your phone, whip up a message to the PR rep for Schweiden Adlers, and press send.

 **rin** : yamasaki-san, just wanted to confirm we were still on for 8am tomorrow?

The response you get is almost instantaneous.

 **yamasaki** : Yes. I will meet you outside the stadium. Good night, Nakajima-san.

 _‘I forgot how everyone here is so formal for no damn reason_ ,’ you think, eyes fluttering shut as you clutch your phone to your chest. _'I haven't been called Nakajima-san since grade school.'_

Right, grade school. That's how old you were the last time you were here. It's a funny thought, albeit one that makes you cringe, because living in Los Angeles has turned you into a different person: casual, cool, _relaxed_ in a way that being here doesn't offer. You turn on your side, clutching your stomach, hoping by the grace of god that this trip will end soon.

***

The gym smells like fresh wax and sweat, filled with a cacophony of squeaking sneakers running up and down the halls.

You recognize most of their faces having studied them on the plane ride over. _Nicolas Romero_ , a Brazilian player, who also happened to be the oldest and most veteran player on the team. Very tall and very handsome in a rugged way that makes him look more like a Hollywood stuntman than an athlete.

 _Korai Hoshiumi_ is the next one you stake out. His height alone is enough to grab your attention because he’s actually around _your height._ And if that wasn't enough, that head-full of white hair makes you wonder if it's a result of a bad dye-job or the stress of being a professional athlete.

 _Tobio Kageyama_ is another face you recognize, if only because he reminds you more of an idol than an athlete—which brings you to the player in question.

“That’s Ushijima Wakatoshi,” says Yamasaki, leading you up the stands to take a seat. “I’ve scheduled your interview during his lunch break.”

“I’d like to watch their practice session, if that’s OK,” you tell him, taking out a notepad. It makes for good background--not to mention you'll get a better sense of whatever team dynamic they have.

“It shouldn’t be a problem, but let me run it by our coach,” he says, smiling.

 _‘Our coach?_ ’ You think, watching him take off down the stands.

Yamasaki is an easily frazzled man, prone to tripping over his own two feet—and had it not been for the badge, you would’ve probably confused him for an intern, maybe a fanboy. You think it’s pretty cute that he considers himself part of the team, even if he is technically part of administrative support. You make a mental note to put that somewhere in your first copy, but part of you already knows it’ll get cut from the final draft. What a shame.

From a distance, he gives you a thumbs-up.

You offer him a thumbs-up back, shifting your gaze to Ushijima, who’s apparently in the zone.

They’re doing suicide drills, racing against each other. Nicolas bows out first, followed by Hoshiumi. One by one, they all bow out, until it’s just Kageyama and Ushijima racing against one another, a one-sided rivalry if you ever saw one.

Ushijima is cool as a cucumber, the last one standing as Kageyama collapses on the floor, catching his breath like there’s not enough air to go around. You make a note of _poised and_ _disciplined_ in your notepad, thinking of your opening line, knowing you have a long way to go until you find the hook of your story. But that’s OK—you have time. _You have two weeks on the clock_ _beginning today._

He’s looking at you from the court, having finally stopped. He’s sweating, but he doesn’t even look remotely out of breath, which is frankly kind of amazing because his other teammates look utterly, utterly _winded_. Strewn across the floor of the gymnasium like dirty piles of forgotten clothes.

Their coach is scolding them to get up— _“a bunch of wusses, all of you!”; “that’s all you got?_ ”; “ _pull it together, we have the whole day ahead of us_ ”—and it makes you laugh when Yamasaki runs down the courtside to get out of the way when the assistant coaches drag out the carts of volleyballs.

You make a note to interview the coach too, but when you look up from your notepad, you see that Ushijima is still looking at you.

You scribble down two more notes.

 _piercing gaze  
_ _stares with purpose_

And.

_unwittingly handsome_

*

Ushijima meets you in the break room during his lunch hour, carrying with him the same catered lunchbox Yamasaki provided you.

When you meet, you instinctively jump from your seat, bowing—only to see he’s already bowing back, bent at the hip in a 90-degree angle. Yamasaki filters in behind him, “Coach knows you’ll be interviewing today, so take as long as you need,” he says, smiling at you. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll end up on the cover of _Weekly Sports."_

Ushijima looks surprised, blinking, “I wasn’t aware this was a cover story.”

“No promises,” you quip with a gracious smile as Ushijima takes the empty seat across from you. It’s better to undersell than underdeliver. And by now, it’s practically a force of habit. (Everyone always thinks their story is a cover story. Part of your job is to temper expectations early on to avoid later disappointment.) “Thank you, Yamasaki-san.”

“Of course,” he returns your smile, pauses by the doorway, and takes a deep breath before taking off down the hall.

You’re alone with him now and the air has stilled. He smells vaguely like soap, mildly sweet and mildly heady, and something about it is oddly comforting.

“I guess we should start out with a little background first,” you explain, pressing the red button on your digital recorder. “I’m going to tape our conversation, but if at any point you want to stop or rephrase something—”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Oh. Fantastic. That makes your life a whole lot easier. “Well, just in case you change your mind, the offers stands,” you tell him, putting the recorder aside. “Can you state your name and the date for me?”

“Ushijima Wakatoshi. May 16th.”

You lean back in your seat, noting with mild disdain that he has picture perfect posture (of course he does). Back straight like he’s sitting against the wall. He never crosses his legs (you do) and he looks you dead in the eye when he speaks.

“So let’s start with the easy stuff,” you say. “Tell me a little bit about what it was like growing up in Sendai.”

He pauses, “You know where I grew up?” The look he gives you is chillingly cold.

You look around the room, wondering if this is some kind of trick camera being played on you because he sounds irritated... _angry_. “It was in your player profile,” you tell him, feeling weirdly like you’ve sold out the poor intern who probably built that website from scratch. “On the official Schweiden Adlers website."

He looks down at his lap, then back at you, “I see. So it's public information.”

It’s as if he’s already made peace with it. ‘ _He’s a bit of an oddball,_ ’ you think, studying his face. _‘Hard to read, yet almost glaringly transparent. Like an incoherent dichotomy. Oof—that’s perfect_.’ You scribble that down in your notepad, feeling his gaze on you.

“What are you writing down?”

“Just some notes for myself.”

“What kind of notes?”

“Maybe we should get back to the questions,” you say, glancing at the clock on the wall. You’re beginning to realize this is probably the first profile he’s ever done. “Is this your first time dealing with media?”

“We have press conferences after all our matches.”

“Those are a little different,” you tell him, putting your pen down. And you take a breath, pushing your notepad aside, folding your hands over the table to meet his gaze. “Listen, I want you to feel comfortable talking with me. I won’t take any notes unless you don’t want me to.”

He considers it, quietly, but offers little response in return.

“I'm not trying to play _gotcha_ ,” you go on. “I want to tell your story, from beginning to end. It may not be on your terms, but it’ll be as honest as it gets.”

And then you look around the room, stretching your arms out like a lazy cat under the hazy afternoon sun. “Kind of stuffy in here, isn’t it? Maybe we can go for a walk outside? Enjoy the weather.”

It surprises more than you expect when he acquiesces with a stern, yet soft “OK.”

***

There’s nothing more beautiful than spring in Japan, even if you did miss cherry blossom season by two months.

You come to a stop at the courtyard plaza, where the vendors are just beginning to unpack their selling carts. You buy yourself a yogurt ice bar, offer to treat Ushijima, but he declines, saying something about his diet.

“You seem really disciplined,” you tell him, taking a seat by the fountain. “That’s pretty impressive for someone your age.”

Ushijima pauses—you notice he tends to do that a lot—before taking a seat next to you by the fountain. “You know my age?” But the realization dawns on his face of something like _‘oh, right, it must be on the official website, along with my hometown.’_ “How much older are you?”

“One year older. I’m 25,” you quip, munching down on your popsicle. “But I can pass for 18, right?”

“No,” he turns to look at the vendors. “You look exactly your age.”

You frown, whatever patience you had dissolving into something of disdain as you stiffen your spine, copying his posture. Maybe if you sit up a little straighter it’ll confuse him into thinking otherwise. “Alright, moving along then,” you mumble.

“You were asking about Sendai,” he states.

You’re surprised he remembers. With athletes, you never know what you’re going to get. Sometimes they’re just looking for the easy way out, even if it means forgoing your name and calling you _miss_ —which, yes, can get patronizing after a while. “Did you like growing up there?”

“I didn’t dislike it.”

Ah, you’re starting to get the hang of his answers. Very by-the-book, _very straightforward_. “Is that where you learned how to play volleyball?”

“Yes.”

“And who taught you?”

A pause. _Oh_. It’s a _heavy_ pause.

“My father,” he says, but you have a distinct feeling you’ve already nailed the heart of your story. All these years of writing and sometimes you just _know_ when you’ve landed something juicy.

It’s practically instinct.

“And what was your relationship with your father like?”

He turns to meet your gaze, “Is that question necessary?”

“I’m afraid so,” you say, knowing it’s your job to ask uncomfortable questions. You don’t particularly like pressing the subject, but you’re also aware you’re not here for him to like you—you’re not here to please him. You’re here to tell his story, however prickly and grotesque it might be. “We can move on to some other questions, but I’m going to have to revisit it eventually,” you offer, feeling weirdly unhelpful even as he turns and nods.

Oh. He’s OK with it.

He’s strangely reasonable and it gives him a quirky presidential quality, though you’re aware the alter-ego of reason is malleability. “You played in high school, so suffice to say your track record is pretty impressive,” you go on. “Did you always know you wanted to go pro or was it more of a—"

“ ** _This is not OK_**!”

Both of you veer your gazes to the entryway of the stadium to see Yamasaki standing there, pits drenched in sweat.

“You can’t just bring him outside—he’s a _public figure!_ ”

Oh, you feel a little bad.

Just as you’re about to apologize, Ushijima speaks up first.

“I invited her out.”

Yamasaki looks at him full of disappointment. It’s _searing_. You feel bad enough having apparently crossed the line—you’re not about to let Ushijima take the fall for it. “He’s just—”

“Sorry," he interjects, bowing.

Yamasaki relents, looking somewhat guilty--no doubt for that ridiculous outburst. _'Talk about fussy,'_ you think sullenly to yourself, sucking off the last bit of your popsicle before dumping it in the trash. For what it's worth, you bow too.

"What's done is done," he says, motioning to the entrance. "Just get back in before anyone notices."

When he's out of sight, you turn to Ushijima.

“You didn’t have to cover for me.”

“It’s fine," he says.

***

 **subject** : japan update – day 1  
 **body** :

IM ALIVE!!

and things are going great! had udon for breakfast, catered lunch at the stadium (tofu stuffed with brown rice), boiled veggies, and tuna. a lot healthier than I’m used to, but the novelty of japanese food hasn’t worn off yet.

 **rin nakajima  
** _staff writer @ weekly sports_

* * *

 **subject** : re: japan update – day 1  
 **body** :

_AND THE STORY??_

**goro hiroshi  
** _senior editor @ sports weekly_

* * *

 **subject** : re: re: japan update – day 1  
 **body** :

oh right i also met ushijima today

did a short interview during his lunch hour. now i’m back at my hotel transcribing. gonna head back out later tonight for a team dinner.

 **rin nakajima  
** _staff writer @ weekly sports_

* * *

 **subject** : re: re: re: japan update – day 1  
 **body** :

good.

keep me updated on your progress.

 **goro hiroshi  
** _senior editor @ sports weekly_

* * *

 **subject** : re: re: re: re: japan update – day 1  
 **body** :

do i get a raise now?

 **rin nakajima  
** _staff writer @ weekly sports_

* * *

You find yourself dressing up for dinner, if only to go to the bar after and enjoy the nightlife. You’re single as fuck and you’re in a whole new country—and _technically_ , you’re off the clock. So what if you’re putting on makeup? _So what if you’re curling your hair?_ You want to look presentable and you _want_ to look—

Look what?

 _Look cute_.

You pick out a pink sundress, tuck your hair behind your ears, and head out on your way.

* * *

They decide on a barbecue place near the stadium. You’re running five minutes late, but hey, you’re not the one who chose a restaurant so far removed from Ginza.

The team is already waiting outside and _gosh_ , they stick out like sore thumbs. They’re obscenely tall, difficult to look away from, and it doesn’t help that they’re making a big old ruckus on the street. You greet them with a smile, and the smallest one among them, Hoshiumi, says something like “finally!” before they filter in, one by one.

Ushijima holds the door for you as you glance at the screen of your phone to see one new notification.

 **yamasaki** : I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it tonight. My apologies, Nakajima-san.  
 **yamasaki** : Nicolas Romero can answer any questions you might have.  
 **yamasaki** : Please feel free to contact me if the team gives you any trouble.

 **rin** : thanks!

“Just pretend I’m not here,” you say, following Nicolas to the private room in the back.

“That’ll be difficult for the boys,” he tells you in broken Japanese, tapping his temple. “When they see a pretty girl, they lose focus.”

“Ha, I’m sure that’s not true.”

You’re immediately on guard, regretting wearing that sundress, though you know his intentions are far from malicious. They’re just misaligned and sadly too prevalent in your world. Ushijima, for what it’s worth, seems to notice your discomfort and filters his other teammates into their seats, saving the two at the end for you and him.

 _Perfect_.

You get to be a wallflower, which is exactly what you want.

“Are you gonna be taping this?” says Hoshiumi as you pull out your recorder from your bag. He looks at it with curious eyes that turns into something of disdain. “Guess that answers my question.”

“Just think of it as an extra plate at the table," you tell him, but he offers you a look of disbelief before shrugging.

“Something to drink?” says Nicolas, passing you the menu. “I’m having a beer myself.” He whistles a bit, leaning back in his seat to look at the others at the table. “Been a _long_ day.”

No kidding. You’re still jetlagged after traveling, so you would know one or two things about being tired.

Your peers, mostly men, are afforded the benefit of the doubt when it comes to drinking off the clock -- technically, you’re _allowed_ to have beer, but it’s at your own discretion -- but you’re not about to throw your credibility out the window with a group you barely know.

“Water for me,” you quip, passing Ushijima the menu, which he just passes down the aisle—down and down it goes like a game of hot potato until you realize that no one on the team is drinking either.

Whew, good decision.

***

They’re a rowdy and cantankerous bunch, which comes as no surprise, but eating with them gives you a better sense of their overall dynamic.

Nicolas, the oldest of them, has taken on the unofficial role of the leader—and the others are content to follow in line. He leads most of their conversations, and for the most part, it creates a natural flow between the players who might be on the shier say, namely Kageyama, who seems ill-equipped to handle topics of conversation not centered around volleyball.

“I met my wife in elementary school,” says Nicolas. “Proposed to her with a ring pop. She said no. So I proposed 24 more times through primary and secondary school before she said finally said yes.”

“A lie,” says Kageyama.

“You got me. It was 23 times.”

“That’s not how the game works,” says Hoshiumi. “You have to lie about something _significant_. You can’t just tweak one minor detail and call it a lie. That’s like telling the truth.”

Nicolas just laughs, moving on. “Oi, miss storyteller, your turn."

All eyes rest on you, but hey, he’s right. This is your time to shine and you're not above having a little fun on this trip too. There's no harm in playing along. At the worst, you can strike it when you transcribe your recordings.

“OK. Once upon a time—”

“We bared our souls to you!” Nicolas protests. “No fairytales allowed.”

“Fine.” You sigh, staring wistfully at the greasy aftermath of your meal. “When I was little, I ran away from home," you tell them. "I took a bus to Sendai and was homeless for about two hours before I was rescued by a boy on a bike."

Hoshiumi sizes you up from the far end of the table, “Sounds fake."

"It's real," says Ushijima, and for a moment, you think he might be looking right through you.

As if he already knows the only lying game you're playing is the one you're playing with yourself.

“Oh, come on. That has to be real,” says Nicolas, stroking his beard. “I know a love story when I hear one.”

“Nah.” Hoshiumi sizes you up from the far end of the table. “I don't believe it."

Kageyama blushes when he realizes all eyes are him waiting for an an answer. “How would I know,” he mutters, pursing his lips.

“I made it up,” you smile, avoiding Ushijima's stare.

“I told you it was fake!” says Hoshiumi. “It sounds exactly like something from a shojo manga I read.”

“ _You_ would know. That's all you ever read."

Nicolas tells a joke that makes everyone else laugh—even you laugh, but you realize, of course, there’s only one person at the table who’s not laughing, and it’s Ushijima Wakatoshi.

***

“Did you get what you needed?”

You willow by the restroom, staring in through the windowfront to see the others loitering outside. Ushijima studies your face as you double-check your belongings—mainly your wallet, your phone, your recorder, and your notepad. “I got some good stuff,” you tell him, being cautiously vague and offering a cordial smile. “Still have a long way to go but—” You meet his eyeline, very aware of his dead-eyed gaze. “I think things are moving along.”

He nods, curtly.

You think that might be your cue to leave, but he makes no move to head towards the exit.

“I’ll walk you to your hotel.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you tell him. ‘ _You don’t have to do that because I already have plans of hitting up an izakaya, drinking, and mulling over some of my more questionable life choices_ ,’ you think, hoping he’ll get the hint.

And he does.

Apparently subtlety is not all lost on him.

“That story you told,” he says. “It was true, wasn’t it?”

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking about the game you were playing over the dinner table. “Nah. I’m just a good liar,” you quip dreamily, taking the first step to leave, but he interjects faster than you can get to the door.

“Are you from Miyagi?"

“Murata, if we're being specific.” You smile. "Same hometown, right?"

He pauses, watching as you bound out the door without sparing him a second glance. _It’s strange,_ he thinks.

Because he knows that exact same story too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/186049363@N05/49935769478/in/dateposted/)  
> (rin)
> 
> follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt)


	2. you and i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The coffee’s getting cold.
> 
> The naked body in your bed, however, is very much warm.

The coffee’s getting cold.

The naked body in your bed, however, is very much warm.

You squint at him, disgust permeating every facet of your being as you reconsider the very poor life decisions you decided to make in the drunken haze of being in a new city. Sure, his butt is kind of cute, dimpled in a way that yours isn’t, but he’s essentially a stranger. You don’t even know his last name, let alone what kind of man he is.

You take a sip of your coffee and nudge him with your toe.

He grumbles, softly, shifting to his side.

“Sorry, but you need to go,” you tell him, voice at a half-whisper as you set your cup on the table. You move to the window to rip open the shades. "Now."

“Jeez, it’s still dark outside.” He mutters, rubbing his eyes as he peers up to look at the window before setting his gaze on you.

You get a better gander at him this time: full beard, almond-shaped eyes, and a head-full of thick black hair that looks like the same color as your coffee. He’s handsome in a totally attainable way. In a totally _I-make-bad-decisions-but-at-least-I-don't-have-beer-goggles_ kind of way.

“What time is it?”

“4am,” you tell him, feeling weirdly chipper even at this odd hour in the day. Must be the jetlag. “Sorry, but I’m late for work, and, _well_ , you need to go.”

“What—you don’t trust me in your hotel room?” He smiles—and it comes effortlessly as he sits up, looking around at the state of your room.

Your suitcase sits wide open in one corner, clothes strewn all over the floor. The glow of your laptop shows at least 50 open tabs on whatever browser you’re using. And you have at least three nondescript coffee cups sitting on your nightstand, no doubt from the shitty default coffee machine on your hotel mini-fridge. “At least let me buy you some breakfast—”

“—already had some,” you tell him, sauntering over to the bathroom, hoping he'll get the hint and drop whatever pretense of politeness he has going on. “Seriously, I’m gonna get ready now. And, um, when I come back out, I don’t expect to see you here."

Still, he looks amused, grabbing his boxer briefs from off the floor, “Where did you say you were from again?”

“LA.”

“Cool, cool. I’m from New York, so I guess that would make us enemi—"

You shut the door before he can say anymore.

***

 _‘Ushijima Wakatoshi is a man of routine_ ,’ you think, watching him stretch his quads outside the entryway of his apartment complex. _‘He wakes up at 5am_ … _ **and**_?’

“What do you eat for breakfast?” You ask.

“Nothing.”

 _‘He wakes up at 5am, forgoes breakfast_ , _and sets out on his morning run_.’

“And how far do you usually go?” You watch as he leans over to touch his toes—surprisingly flexible, considering how monstrously big he is. “Do you usually have a distance in mind? Some goal you’re working towards? How many miles—"

“I run as far as I can.”

“And what kind of music do you listen to?”

“I don’t.”

 _‘He wakes up at 5am, forgoes breakfast, sets out on his morning run, with no endgoal in sight, with the sounds of city life instead of—_ eh, I’ll figure out the rest,’ you think quietly, pulling out your wireless earbuds from your pocket as he starts stretching his calves.

When he stands back up, he takes a gander at your outfit: track suit on, sports bra, and running shorts. The shoes you’re wearing are Adidas, but they look worn, completely broken in. “Are you planning to join me?” He asks, cocking his head to the side. “You may not be able to keep up.” Miraculously, he doesn’t sound smug about it. He means it. _Because he always means exactly what he says_. You make a mental note of that.

“Indeed.” You beam, sounding very chipper as you plug one ear with an earbud. “Hope that’s OK with you.”

He studies you as you browse through your playlist, settling on one that reads _gym tunes_. “What’re you listening to?”

He looks curious, or as curious as one can get at 5am in the morning. You get the feeling he wants in.

You offer him an earbud, smiling.

He takes it.

***

For the most part, you’re able to keep up with him despite the significant degree of separation—you’re two meters behind, feeling the burn in your lungs, _your abdomen_ as you try to keep him within sight. But you feel a surge of pride and _relief_ when he comes to a halting stop next to the Sumida River, where there’s a park filled with naked trees, post-cherry blossom bloom, and a set of stone benches that look worn.

(He doesn’t sit.)

You press pause on your playlist, catching your breath over the railing of the river, and watch the break of sunlight over the water’s horizon.

“The sunrises in Japan are the best,” you say, very aware that you should probably be asking some question of relevance right now. But you decide to enjoy the moment for what it’s worth as Ushijima takes the space next to you, also leaning against the railing. "I used to watch them every weekend with my grandpa in Murata. It made me really happy."

He offers back you your earbud.

You take it.

And for a while, the both of you stand there in silence, watching morning come.

“So why’d you run away from home?”

Ah, it _would_ come back to that.

Somehow you knew you wouldn't escape it so easily.

“Why else? I had a fight with my dad.”

You’re starting to get a better feel for how he operates. He asks exactly what he’s thinking, no qualms—no hesitation. It gives the impression that he’s constantly grilling you, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. He just wants to know. He’s curious. Genuinely. And that's a rare thing to find without some kind of superficial pretense.

“Why were you fighting?”

“Aren’t I supposed to ask the questions?” You say, but he doesn’t seem to understand you’re teasing him because he immediately lowers his gaze. Like he's said something wrong. When he hasn't.

You feel guilty.

“My dad wanted to send me to America and that was too much for me handle as a kid,” you tell him. “I’m from a small town. I had friends. All my family grew up there. My grandma, grandpa—my parents. Everyone knew everyone, and for me, that was the only life I knew. It was the only life I _wanted_ to know. So when he told me he was sending me away, that was incomprehensible. So I ran, thinking it would change his mind. I was obviously wrong.”

You stretch your arms out, yawning as you lean against one fist, watching red bloom on the blue of the riverside. “The kid who found me—I never even learned his name. I’d never been to a city as big as Sendai. I always wanted to thank him, but I never gave him my name either. Was too scared. Y’know—you’re brought up being told not to talk to strangers, and here I was in this new city knowing no one.”

You look at the water--at the ripples, and wonder if how long you could hold your breath underneath the surface if you jumped in right now.

“Bambi.”

You blink.

Ushijima turns his gaze to look at you, “You called him Bambi because his eyes were brown."

Oh?

 _Oh_.

“You…” You wrinkle your brows, studying his face--that listlessness in his eyes, like this is a story you should've known once upon a time. “That was you?"

Sun’s up.

It hits only half of his face as he wears a smile that looks like it’s divorced somewhere between hope and relief. “He called you Toto because you kept saying you weren’t in Murata anymore." There are no half-measures in his voice. He's completely resolute.

You find yourself at a loss for words, and yet. “Why didn't you say anything at dinner yesterday?"

_It was him._

_You know it._

You remember that day like it was yesterday.

"You seemed like you had somewhere to be," he says.

Right. Somewhere to be.

A bar.

(And a stranger you barely knew.)

“Should we go?” He says, turning towards the path you two came from.

“Y—yeah,” you say, softly. “We should.”

You watch as he takes off first, following from behind while the distance between you closes in.

***

Ushijima drops you off at the entrance of your hotel--you don't even realize he's been meaning to take you back until you stop at the steps. Because you have other things on your mind. Namely, _he's the one who found you that day you ran away_. Of all the faces, all the people in Japan, who would've thought?

Truthfully, you never believed in the red string of fate. The ideology was a byproduct of Japanese mysticism, and you'd outgrown it when you moved to Los Angeles. But _small world_ doesn't quite begin to cut it. It's almost like you were destined to--

“Hey.” You have to physically restrain yourself from touching him on the arm. It's not the same here, you think. In LA, you could hug him and maintain a little wiggle room under the pretense of being open and inviting. But here--a hug had different implications you weren't afforded. “Thank you.”

He looks at you with that same expressionless gaze he always has, “For what?”

It takes you a while to think about it, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He looks like he’s OK waiting for an answer, even if it takes forever.

“For saving my life,” you say, taking a step back into the cool, air-conditioned lounge of the hotel lobby.

You offer him a smile from behind the glass before turning away, and for what it’s worth, you see him smile back before you run off.

***

“What? How are you not freaking the fuck out?”

You push the knob of the tub with your big toe, letting in a short stream of hot water before letting it stop. “I dunno. It just didn’t feel like a big surprise to me,” you explain, feeling very much like you’re being interrogated. "It felt... _right_. Like, you know when you learn about gravity for the first time in elementary school? It's just like that. You knew it was there--you just had to put a name to it."

Sam, your roommate, rubs away the sleepiness from her eyes as she pushes back her reading glasses. “Your life sounds like a Nora Ephron movie and meanwhile I’ve been wearing the same t-shirt three days in a row,” she mumbles, laying down on her study material. “Why did I decide to become a lawyer when I could be gallivanting off to Japan with hot men who play volleyball?”

“Unfortunately there’s no gallivanting here,” you say, splashing some water onto your neck, only to feel it dribble down your back. There’s sadly nothing glamorous about being a writer. You muck around in most of your own filth, racking your mind for something compelling, but once in a while you get comped with a free hotel room to think in.

“Why do you always call me when you’re naked? _”_ She sniffs, standing up from her desk to stretch. “Tell me when your boobs are no longer on screen.”

“Sam, I don’t care. Look at me and my boobs. Being naked doesn’t bother me,” you tell her, leaning into the tub. “Besides, we don’t have a bathtub at home—so I’m trying to make the most of it while I’m here.” You grin, holding out your phone to show her the sheer size of the thing. “I held my breath underwater for three minutes today—I think that’s a new record.”

“Are you trying to beat David Blaine's record? 'Cause I think you still got 14 minutes to go.” She cranes her neck back with a sharp _pop_ that comes with a loud groan of relief. “When’re you visiting your dad?”

“I’m visiting my _grandma_ ,” you correct her, “this weekend. After I meet Ushijima’s mom in Sendai.”

“Meeting the parentals? Moving kind of fast, aren’t you?”

“For an _interview_.” You roll your eyes, fiddling with the knobs of the bath again to let in a fresh stream of hot water. “Please don’t make this something it’s not.”

“Yeah, _yeah_ , whatever. Your reputation is important, _blah blah blah_.” She flops onto the floor, stretching her legs out while her fat black cat Mittens makes a cameo in the background. He’s lounging by the windowsill, staring at you with dagger eyes. “How’s your story going anyway? You get anything juicy?”

“Nah, he’s a model athlete—perfect record, perfect references, perfect everything. His only crime is his grades were abysmal, but does that even matter when you’re a professional athlete?” You plant your chin on your clenched fist, thinking. “But maybe that’s my hook. Young people are always looking for a role model where there isn’t one—maybe he’s exactly the kind of person who lives up to the hype. Maybe celebrity worship isn't all dead."

"I don't think that's going to age very well.” She grins at you. “As a lawyer, make sure you add a disclaimer somewhere in there that you were childhood sweethearts.”

“Ha. Very funny.” You lower your gaze, suddenly feeling somewhat ashamed because as innocent as that sounds, you’ve done some dirty, dirty things too. “I slept with someone last night.”

“WHAT. AND YOU’RE JUST MENTIONING THAT NOW? WHO?”

You plug your left ear with your pinky finger, pretty sure that she’s just blown out your eardrum with that incessant screaming. “An expat I met at bar,” you say, rubbing your temples. “I was drunk and he was very convincing.”

She cocks her head, studying you, “Was it any good?”

Truthfully, you’re grateful for the lack of judgment. How she’s able to be inappropriate about your work relationships yet also coddle you when you’re regretting something very gross—it’s an amazing feat. “No. Casual sex is so overrated. There’s, like, no way you can be shameless and weird if you don’t know them, which is what makes sex great,” you tell her. “And also it was awkward. Very awkward. He actually tried to get to know me as I was trying to kick him out.”

“Why’d you let him stay over? The trick is to kick ‘em right after they cum.” She releases a very inappropriate groan as she leans over to touch her toes. “Your gift to them was a free orgasm. They don’t deserve the added benefit of a place to sleep.”

“Wow. Very wise, professor.”

“I know.” She smiles. “Gotta go now. Love you, talk soon.”

“Love you too.”

She hangs up and you lay your phone down on the floor, staring at the wall.

You hold your breath and sink beneath the surface of the water.

***

 _Ushijima Wakatoshi is a man beloved by most, if not all of his contemporaries—from his teammates to his coaches to his adversaries on the court_. _“He was once a rival of mine,” says Tobio Kageyama, 21, who faced off against him in high school. “It’s an honor to play with him on the same team now.”_

_Nicolas says he’s the “most reliable ace” he knows while Hoshiumi, aptly nicknamed the Little—_

“Jesus, Rin, you sound like you’re opining him,” says Goro, your editor, voice muffled over the phone.

“His record’s squeaky clean. All his coaches only have good things to say about him. The most I got was he’s _too perfect_. I don’t know what to say. I literally cannot make this shit up,” you sigh into the receiver, looking out your window at the Tokyo city line. “He’s _actually_ mister perfect.”

“Trust me, no one in life is perfect, Rin.”

If only he knew.

“You don’t need to patronize me.”

“Hey, I’m not patronizing you. But I’m also stating a fact.”

Well, sometimes the facts are stupidly patronizing but you’re not about to say that to the guy who writes your paycheck.

“ _No one is perfect_.”

No need to say it again, you think sullenly.

“Yeah? A bunch of evangelical Christians would tell you otherwise."

“Get to know him off the court. Take him out to dinner. Walk around the city.” There’s some clanging in the background, the sound of children shrieking with laughter. “Ask him about his dad again if you have to. People aren’t wholesome, perfect beings—they’re made of layers upon layers that you have to peel back and get to know.”

You smile, wryly, “Damn, OK Shrek.”

There’s no answer on the other end.

“Uh, hello?”

You look at your phone and see he’s hung up.

 **goro** : TAKE HIM OUT TO DINNER  
 **goro** : GET TO KNOW HIM OFF THE COURT  
 **goro** : that’s what your company card is for

***

 **you** : hi! i know this is last minute, but would you happen to have ushijima-kun’s contact information?

 **yamasaki** : I do. May I ask what this is in regard to?

 **you** : i wanted to ask him to join me at the night market to give my story some color  
 **you** : is that OK?

 **yamasaki** : Sounds fun! I’ll let him know!  
 **yamasaki** : I love night markets!  
 **yamasaki** : Which one were you thinking?

***

 _‘Well, this is a bit awkward, but it’s not like I could’ve said no without making it sound like I was taking out Ushijima on a date_ ,’ you think to yourself as you wait at the entryway of the marketplace, watching the pretty girls in their pretty yukatas filter through.

You _wish_ you had a yukata.

“What’re you looking at?”

You jerk around to see Ushijima looking at you. He’s dressed completely casual, which is an odd yet welcome sight to behold after seeing him in only tracksuits and athletic shorts.

A pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a flannel. He _looks_ like he’s from Miyagi, but it works. You suppose that’s how it is for men who are naturally tall, fit, and handsome. He could probably wear a potato sack and look good. (The world is truly an unjust place.)

“The yukatas,” you say, looking back at the marketplace and feeling strangely out of place and underdressed with your jeans, tank-top, and flats. “My mom always said I was going to outgrow them, so she wanted to wait until I stopped growing to buy me one.” You smile a bit, dodging the couple who’s playing an odd game of drunken tag in their traditional garb. “Where’s Yamasaki-san?”

“I told him there was no need for him to be here,” says Ushijima, taking the first step into the marketplace. "Give me your number so you can contact me directly next time."

_Oh?_

You take out your phone and he takes it from your hand before you can even open up the screen.

He types in his number, registers his name, and passes it back to you.

Like clockwork.

"I sent a text from yours so I have your number," he states plainly, turning around with that vagueless expression on his face like this means absolutely nothing. “Shall we go?"

 _‘Oh—it’s that simple for him, huh_ ,’ you think, following him from behind.

“My editor said I should get to know you off the court, so I hope this wasn’t too much trouble,” you say, feeling weirdly apologetic because this _was_ last minute.

“It isn’t.” He stops at the first stall, a fish fry stand. “Are you hungry?”

 _Ushijima is considerate—the kind of man who’ll ask you if you’re hungry on a night that’s supposed to be about him_.

“Starving,” you say.

***

He’s an oddly comforting person to be around. Reserved, patient, excessively polite. He likes leading the way, creating a bubble for you to follow when he carves out a path in the crowd. (And he does, with that ridiculous height.) And he likes looking back at you over his shoulder to make sure you’re still there, almost like if he loses you in the crowd he’ll lose you forever. It’s a very odd habit, albeit cute, and you think it must be because he has a sister or two at home.

“Nope, I’m an only child.”

“Oh.” For some reason, it surprises more than you expect. “Me too.” But this isn’t about you— _this is about him_. “What was that like for you growing up?”

He looks down at the floor while you continue sucking away at your popsicle. When he thinks, it looks like every ounce of effort is being poured into that brain of his—he looks more intense thinking than he does on the volleyball court.

“I don’t know. It was normal,” he answers. “What was it like for you?”

Hm, it _really_ isn’t about you—and though you remind yourself of that fact, it becomes harder to believe because you’re starting to understand it won’t get you anywhere asking him questions until you offer him something personal in return too. “Kind of lonely,” you admit. “Made me wish I had a sibling.”

He looks out at the crowd congregating by the fish stand, “Me too.” He pauses. “My parents got divorced when I was young.”

He pauses.

"But I'm glad they did."

You're about to ask him why, but he beats you to the punch.

"I'm happy we met again," he says, looking very solemn, as if he's reading a sermon at a funeral. You _think_ he's about to say more, but apparently that's it, as he stands up from his seat. "Are you still hungry?"

You try not to blush, tossing away the remains of your popsicle stick into the garbage, "Yeah, I'm still hungry."


	3. knowing you

**subject** : 36 interview questions  
 **body** :

OMG! I found these 36 interview questions online.

I heard that if you ask them you’ll end up with a cover story!

Link here.

love,  
sam

* * *

 **subject** : re: 36 interview questions  
 **body** :

wow, this was super nice of—DO YOU THINK I’M STUPID?? THESE ARE THE 36 QUESTIONS THAT LEAD TO LOVE FROM THAT PODCAST YOU SENT ME 3 YEARS AGO.

tentative love for you,  
rin

* * *

 **subject** : re: re: 36 interview questions  
 **body** :

Wow. Good memory.

Didn’t think you actually listened to it.

still full of love for you,  
sam

* * *

 **subject** : re: re: re: 36 interview questions  
 **body** :

SAM WE HAD A WHOLE THEME PARTY CENTERED AROUND IT

YOU GOT SO DRUNK U PASSED OUT AFTER THE THIRD QUESTION

very skeptical of your declaration of love,  
rin

* * *

 **subject** : re: re: re: re: 36 interview questions  
 **body** :

Omg you're right.

Good times.

:*

never skeptical of love,  
sam

P.S., not to be like "not all athletes" 'cause I know you swore off dating them after what happened, but not ALL athletes are shitty human beings, right?

* * *

The bullet train in Tokyo _always_ arrives on time—and when they don’t, they offer tokens of apology, including passes for people who take it for work.

Knowing that gives you some sense of ease because you’ll arrive exactly when you need to—which means your father is probably anticipating your arrival at home in Murata, along with your grandmother and grandfather--along with all your childhood friends because word spreads fast from where you come.

“Something on your mind?”

Ushijima hasn’t said a word so far, but then again, you’re only about 10 minutes into your three-hour trip north.

“Not particularly,” you tell him, staring out the window—the passing towns, the stations on standby, the bustle of the people all around you as they find their seats. “Just wondering how much things have changed.”

The last time you were there—you were crying, getting ready to be sent away to a foreign land you knew nothing of. Your father hadn’t even dropped you off at the station. It was your grandpa and grandma that took you, kicking and crying, and you had resented him ever since.

You can't quite say that resentment has faded.

“All the world could burn and Murata would stay the same,” he says. “That’s what my mother used to tell me.”

You smile, wryly, “Are you close with your mom?”

All at once, he stiffens, as if he’s suddenly remembered you’re a reporter.

“Yes.”

“And your dad?”

He looks at you, frowning.

You lean against your clenched fist, "We can talk off the record, if you want.”

“Off the record?”

“If you tell me something’s off the record, it means I can’t publish it,” you explain, knowing you’re probably going to get an earful from your editor about even offering this as an alternative. Because anything on the record is _always_ safer than something off the record. (For the writer, at least.) “Think of it as telling me strictly as a confidante—or a friend.”

He looked unmoved, “It’s not that I don’t trust you. I’m just trying to understand why that’s relevant to the story you’re writing about me.”

“Your parents are there for your most formative years,” you tell him, a _s much it pains you to admit it._ “They know you better than anyone.”

He considers it for a while, staring out the window, “Then I guess you’ll see when you meet her.”

*

Ushijima is quiet.

He doesn’t listen to music, doesn’t speak unless spoken to first, and doesn’t budge a muscle even as the train goes 300 kilometers an hour across the track. Inside these walls, the world looks slow, but his face is unchanging—nothing could faze him, not even the world hurtling forth at— _ah_ , that’s not quite right. You’ll have to fuss with that line later.

“Murata’s going to have a summer festival,” you throw out, wondering if it’ll stick. "They're tradition from where I come."

Whatever consideration he’s offering vanishes in the span of two seconds when he meets your gaze, “I see.”

Hm. It’s hard to hold a conversation with him.

No matter.

You study the 36 questions sitting in your inbox and wonder.

 _Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest_?

How silly, you think, to conflate these questions as a filter to understand the depths of another person. As if human beings aren’t fully actualized, complex creatures filled with gaping holes of contradictions and hypocrisies. You can know someone’s story—that’s why documentaries exist—but you’ll never understand the full breadth of someone until you live a year in their shoes.

Or until you live _with_ them.

(You learned that the hard way.)

And yet.

“Ushijima-san.”

“Hm?”

You slip your phone back into your pocket, “If you could have dinner with anyone in the world, who would it be?”

He considers it, racking his brain for what seems like _hours_. Amazing how one single question can cause him so much stress, _so much wondering_ —as if choosing the right name might actually give way to the reality of a completely hypothetical question.

“My father.”

You smile. You’re not surprised, but it is kind of funny that he spent so long thinking up an answer only for it to be so simple. “Why’s that?”

Again, he’s racking his brain for an answer.

Some athletes are always looking for something compelling but Ushijima looks like he’s searching for something that should be purely instinctual. He’s searching, quite simply, for _an answer_.

“Because there are certain things I’d like to thank him for,” he explains, sounding very presidential—without even knowing it. You never did notice how deep his voice went, how much consideration went into each and every word. And though there’s nothing particularly captivating about the content of what he's telling you, you can see how much it means to him.

“Things like?”

He looks at his hands, then back at you with a small smile. “I was lefthanded growing up. My mother tried to make the switch to my right—but,” he pauses, flexing his knuckles underneath the glow of sunlight filtering through the window beside you. “My father asked her to let me keep practicing with my left.” Another pause, as he lowers his hands to his lap. “And it made me a better volleyball player.”

In the same sense that lefthanded tennis players have the advantage over righthanded tennis players.

“I was lucky,” he concludes quietly, looking out the window.

You’re also starting to get a better sense of what his family dynamic looks like from the crumbs he’s offering. _In Ushijima’s household, his mother calls the shots_. For someone so hesitant to speak on his family, you would’ve thought it was because of some terrible trauma. But he’s all reverence and respect, and the slow realization begins to creep up on you that maybe he’s hesitant because he doesn’t know you at all.

“What about you?” He says, crossing his arms over his chest.

It takes you a moment to understand he’s talking about the dinner question. _Right_. You’d completely forgotten these questions go both ways when it comes to him.

“Probably my mom,” you say, looking out the window to see endless green pastures and the city skylines lost in the background. “She died when I was young, so I miss her a lot."

Oh. You can tell it weighs heavy on him, like he doesn’t expect it at all.

But it inexplicably explains a lot of things he's probably wondering: it’s why dad tried to send you to America, it’s why you picked a fight with him about it—

“Is that why you ran away from home?”

Your stomach does a flip because that’s exactly what you were thinking too. Maybe he's not so slow on the uptake.

You decide not to beat around the bush. “Yeah,” you admit, and it brings something of a smile to your face as you recount the memory like it was yesterday. “My dad was adamant that staying in Murata after mom died would be bad for me, and when I tried explaining to him it was the exact opposite—he wouldn’t listen. So I ran.”

It’s an oddly therapeutic thing to admit, especially since he’d been on the tail-end of your running away. Had you not had that fight with your dad, you likely wouldn't have met Ushijima--well, you would've, but in a completely different context.

You wonder if you would be treating each other the same way, even if you hadn't had that fateful encounter once upon a time. From what you can tell, he seems a bit more familiar with you, but your conversations so far are pretty rigid. You ask him a question--he throws it right back at you. It gives the same impression as playing a very exhausting game of tennis, in which the volleys never end because the _questions never end_.

“Before we go to my house, there’s somewhere I want to take you.”

 _‘Somewhere he wants to take me?'_ You wonder, blinking out of your reverie.

Your phone begins to buzz--it's dad.

You press _ignore_ and slip it back into your pocket.

Ushijima, of course, notices.

“OK," you say, hoping to turn the subject before it can take root. "What kind of place is it?"

*

Sendai is a lot like Tokyo—big city, big streets, big parks. You shield your face from the sun as you follow Ushijima down the street of one of many business districts, feeling at least a dozen eyes frozen on him as he passes through.

 _“Wow, he’s really tall.”_

_“He looks like a celebrity.”_

_“Isn’t that Ushi—nah, couldn’t be. I heard he was in Tokyo.”_

He seems indifferent about it for the most part. _Ushijima Wakatoshi is the opposite of flashy_. He’s quiet and looming, desperate to become another face in the sea of faces left unknown, and yet—the attention is never lost on him as he passes through.

“We’re here.”

You know this alleyway—you _know_ the old mural of laughing children on the wall that’s since been stripped away due to the wears and tears of time. You know this place, _the smell of it_ —the bakery next door, the workers taking their smoke breaks outside, and the shadows on the floor that look like the back of a stegosaurus when the sunlight hits.

You stop at the dumpster, pausing behind it.

“This is where you found me,” you say, somewhat hesitantly as you remember just how startled you’d been when he apparated before you with his bike. You’d been crying because you thought you were going to be homeless for the night--maybe forever.

A laugh escapes you, gentle and sweet, “Damn, I must’ve looked pretty pathetic.”

He looks at the empty space, then back at you, “No, I thought you were cute.”

You blink. Twice.

But he turns around, ready to leave—and you’re left wondering if you heard him right, _if he_ really said that at all, “My mother will be home soon.”

He doesn’t look at you again, turning to the street instead. “We should go.”

*

“ _What?_ ARE YOU KIDDING ME? THAT SHIT IS GREAT!”

You jerk your phone away from your ear, but you’re pretty sure you’ve already blown out your eardrum. “This isn’t, like, a conflict of interest?”

You study the traditional-styled house from the vantage point of the rock garden, thinking it suits Ushijima quite well. It’s a mix set—a traditional exterior and a completely modern interior, collect with a grassy backyard with a volleyball net. “I thought you would be more upset about this.”

“It’s only a conflict of interest if you start dating him,” says Goro, your editor, who seems way too gleeful for comfort—in fact, it’s starting to make you regret telling him this at all. “Star-crossed childhood friends who meet again through the power of sports? That’s universal. Anyone can get that, even people who aren't fans of volleyball. Seriously, that’s— _big._ That kind of shit is _cover story_ big—and as your friend, and not your editor, it’d be a pretty good way to get your name on TV too, if that’s your jam.”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not interested in being on TV,” you state.

“Well, you should be.”

It’s not enough just to be a good writer these days—you have to market yourself, sell your soul, pander to the people. You know this, but it instinctively makes you recoil. “So rewrite my entire story to be about me. And him. And our one encounter as kids,” you say, bending down to look at the spirals of the rocks. “Anything else I should know?”

“Yeah, and don’t fall in love with him,” he quips, though there’s laughter in the background that you can’t quite make out. “Kidding. Don’t fall in love with him, unless you want an ugly disclaimer on your story that says you fell in love with him.”

“Hilarious. I’m holding back my laughter.”

“Really?”

“No.” You roll your eyes, watching as Ushijima passes by his bedroom window with a knowing look as if to check everything’s order. “You don’t need to worry about that. It only matters because he’s my next big story.”

Too bad you’re the only one who believes it.

But there’s no response. Only then do you realize the line’s already cut. Your editor’s hung up. You’re alone.

“As useful as a right tit,” you mumble.

*

Ushijima’s mother is a woman of dignity: she wears expensive pantsuits, expensive jewelry, and stands with her spine stiff, shoulders back, and neck tall. It strikes the weird balance of looking like a ballerina or the wife of some rich heir from the dramas on TV. The immaculate bun, minimal makeup, and Hermes scarf doesn’t do much to help her case.

She looks _perfect_ —she looks exactly what you _wished_ you could look like.

“I thought you’d be a man,” she states, taking a seat at their dining table—already set with food thanks to the housekeeper.

“Sorry to disappoint,” you quip, taking the seat across from her while Ushijima takes the seat next to you.

“It’s no great disappointment,” she replies, indifferently, watching as you fish out your recorder. “Though I’d like to see your credentials—”

“—she’s legitimate,” Ushijima interjects, quietly. “Yamasaki already vetted her.”

"I'm happy to prove my case if it's that important to you," you tack on, hoping to alleviate the very obvious tension that's beginning to form in the room. 

His mother sizes you up with a discerning eye—piercingly cold, almost like a falcon. “It's fine. I trust my son.” She turns to meet your gaze as you set the recorder on the table. “Well? What kind of questions do you have for me?”

“I was mostly hoping I could observe,” you tell her, meeting her grimace with a full-blown smile that reeks of coolness and chill. Because if there’s anything you’ve learned from your job—it’s how to deal with people who are already wary of you--and people who are on the verge of hating you. “Just pretend like I’m not here.”

 _Just pretend like I’m invisible_.

That’s exactly what she does.

*

 _She’s a career woman_ , _albeit one that comes from an already-powerful family_. She’s exceedingly tenacious, grilling Ushijima on nearly every facet of his life—from his games to his teammates to his girlfriend. 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he states. “We went on one date.”

“She’s a good woman. Well-read, well-spoken, well-liked by her peers and coworkers. She knows how to cook and she wants kids--many of them,” she replies. “I don’t know why you wouldn’t call her back.”

 _Wow, sounds like she’s reading from a resume_.

Ushijima looked unmoved—he decides not to answer.

You realize when he doesn’t want to talk about something, he’ll just stop talking altogether.

You’re not about to TMZ his personal life, but if it’s relevant to his career, then maybe it’s worth asking about.

“How often do you set your son on dates?” You ask, watching the spread of food on the table vanish before your eyes as Ushijima continues to eat, long after you’re full.

“I’m heading out,” he interjects, standing up from his seat. “Don’t follow me.” And he leaves before you even get the chance to protest.

“Not enough, apparently,” says his mother, rubbing her temples as she stands up. “I’m cutting some fruit. Stay.”

But you collect your plate and follow her down the hall and into the kitchen, where she stops at the counter, pausing to take a breath.

“Are you OK?” You ask, setting your plate down before touching her gently on the shoulder.

“I’m fine,” she tells you, but it hardly has any effect as you study the bulging vein in her forehead. She doesn't necessarily pull away, but you can tell she's stiffening from your touch, so you lower your hand. "Everything is fine."

“You don’t seem fine.”

And then the dam bursts.

“What can I say? My son doesn’t like me—and you’re about to write about it,” she states, leaning against the counter to cross her arms over her chest. “What’s not fine about that?”

You smile weakly, “I don’t think that at all.”

And maybe it’s not your place to say it, but you’re pretty sure he loves her— _she’s his mother for god’s sake_. But you decide to hold that back for now, as you see her turn to the basket of pears and grabs a cutting knife from the rack by the sink.

“His father and I got divorced when he was young,” she states. “I did everything I could to raise him right. To make sure he had his future secured. And _still_ he went off chasing volleyball. I was fine with that, but I did everything to stop him from suffering like his father--and yet he went off chasing his father's dreams anyway."

A pause.

"Maybe it was the divorce," she goes on, voice chillingly cold.

You lean against the kitchen counter, studying your hands and how small they look on the island, "All my parents ever did was fight. Day in, day out. I _wished_ they got divorced,” you say, trying to imagine what it would look like if the marble underneath your fingertips melted into water. "And I ended up resenting my dad because he wouldn't follow through with it."

You shake off the thought, shifting your gaze back to her. "I know it might not mean much, but if I were you, that's one thing I wouldn't regret at all," you say.

Silence.

For a moment, you think you've said something terribly, _terribly_ wrong--and you're already thrumming up an apology, maybe an excuse: something about stepping out of line, followed with a 90-degree bow at the waist that--

“You should stay,” she interjects, peeling the pear with the knife—it comes off in one long sleeve. “The trains have stopped running. There are no cabs this part of town and it’s dark.”

It’s easier than fighting her, so you nod and say OK.

There's another buzz on your phone -- your dad is calling again -- but you press ignore and slip it back into your pocket.

*

Their bathroom is traditional-styled, with a cedarwood bath the size of a king-sized bed (you're pretty sure you can fit ten people in this thing), and a giant window that looks right into their rock garden. It's a _beautiful_ bath, and when you look out, you wonder what it'd be like if it were snowing before you.

(Winter was always your favorite season.)

"Ugh." Ushijima's mother shifts, craning her neck against the edge of the tub. "I need to see a better physical therapist. My neck's completely shot."

"That's what happens when you stare at a computer all day," you say, knowing exactly how it feels. "I don't have a physical therapist, but I do have a neck massager I can recommend."

"Fascinating. Please do."

It's been a long time since you've taken a bath with another person -- that's not really _a thing_ in America -- but it's comforting relaxing with someone else, even if there's absolutely zero intimacy spared.

"That's it for me today," she states, standing up. "I feel like a boiled potato."

You laugh a little, wondering if this is really the same woman you met earlier today with the immaculate bun and stiff back.

She grabs her towel from the wall. "Take as much time as you need," she tells you, wrapping it around her body and taking her leave.

For a while, you stare out at the rock garden and pretend like the snow is falling from the sky.

You hold your breath and sink beneath the surface.

*

When you return to your room, you find a single package sitting on your bed with a red sticky-note sitting on top.

 _For the summer festival_.  
\--Ushijima Wakatoshi

You lift the top and find a blue yukata sitting underneath, embroidered with golden deer.

You think, of course, it might be one of the most beautiful things you've ever seen.

"Ah." You blush, running your hands through your hair. "Shit, shit, _shit_. Not good. Not good at all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> changed this to 5> chapters because everything i write always balloons out of control what else is new
> 
> im on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt) but all im gonna be talking about is BLM
> 
> i dont normally take requests but im thinking about opening them up if u match my donations to BLM groups...lmk if u'd be interested in that


	4. a gift from me to you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What's the company policy on gifts again? Asking for a friend."
> 
> "Why? Your friend receive a gift card?"
> 
> "A yukata, actually."

“What’s the company policy on gifts again?” You ask, twirling a lock of hair between your fingers. “Asking for a friend."

“Why? _Your friend_ receive a gift card?” says Goro, chewing on something that sounds a lot like taffy on the other end of the receiver. Knowing his weird taste in candy, it's probably red vines.

“A yukata, actually.”

The chewing comes to a sudden stop.

There’s some rustling on the other line -- it sounds like he’s walking to a quieter part of the newsroom because the cacophony of voices are beginning to dampen -- before he clears his throat.

“Are we talking about a yukata that costs $25?” He asks. "Because that's the limit on gifts we're allowed to receive."

The fabric alone is probably worth at least $50, but you’re not about to let that slip. “I don’t know how much it is. He-- _my friend--_ didn't mention how much it was,” you state, running your fingers against the seams, feeling every handmade stitch. Even if it were some cheap tourist rental, you’d be grateful because of the gesture and what it meant. It just so happens it’s not. “I’m just thinking—what if hypothetically it were $26?”

“Then _your friend_ would have to return it.”

“But Goro—”

“We have to draw a line somewhere in the sand. That’s the whole point of the ethics seminar they do every year,” he says, sounding very stern, like a father preaching to his very, _very_ uninterested teenage daughter. “As your editor, I’d advise _your friend_ return it. And yet, as your friend, however…without knowing the exact price—just level with me here, how nice of a yukata is it?”

Oh? _Oh_. You’re starting to understand where this is going.

“It’s hideous,” you say. “The fabric’s cheap, design’s trashy—I don’t think it’s more than $20.”

“Welp. A gift’s a gift.”

 _‘A gift’s a gift_ _indeed_ ,’ you think. “Gotta go now, talk soon.”

“Hey—Rin—”

“Yeah?”

He pauses, mulling. You can tell a lot from Goro’s silences because he’s generally not a silent guy. In fact, he has a tendency to talk too much for his own damn good. So when he pauses, you know he’s not just thinking—he’s _mulling_.

“I know you’re good at your job, but don’t do anything stupid alright?”

“If I’m good at my job, then that should go without saying,” you quip cheerfully, though it belies a level of irritation that you can’t quite put your finger on too. “Seriously, you don’t have anything to worry about. The fact that I’m even going over this with you should say a lot about where I am right now mentally, right?”

“I know.” You can practically hear him smile on the other end of the line. “You know I’m a worry wart.”

“Yes. You really are.”

You hang up and toss your phone to the side.

Then you take the yukata from the box, and hold it up against your chest while you look at yourself in the mirror, wondering what each one of those golden deer will look like pressed up against the skin of your body.

 _'It's fine,'_ you tell yourself, running your fingers through your hair. _'Even if something did happen, I can plead plausible deniability. Because...it's my friend who's receiving this yukata, not me.'_

"Ugh, you're so stupid," you tell your own reflection before collapsing backwards onto the bed.

***

 _Ushijima Wakatoshi_ _is a man of routine_ , _even when he’s at home visiting his mother_ _on what should be his weekend off_.

However, you are not.

It's the weekend -- _it's your day off_ \-- and contrary to popular belief, you don't believe in the consumption of 24/7 work. _You believe in healthy breaks_ and you believe in work-life balance, as not to completely burn yourself out.

And you _think_ you’re the one getting up early—after all, you have things to pack, plans to make, a cab to call—but he’s already up and going, in the backyard warming up with at least three volleyballs littered on the ground. You catch him outside the window of your room, and he looks every bit the same, completely unmoved, as if it’s just another day of practice in a different land.

So you wash up, grab your bags, and head downstairs where there’s coffee already brewed along with a note on the fridge from Ushijima’s mother that says she’s at the office for the day. _‘Just like her son,’_ you think, pouring yourself a cup before stepping into the backyard. _‘There are no such things as days off here, even on Saturdays, I suppose_.’

“Morning,” you say, taking a sip of coffee, only to see that he’s dropped the volleyball in his hand to approach you.

“Morning.” He comes to a stop when he reaches the porch, looking cool, if anything a little indifferent. But you've come to accept that's just the unknowing pretense he's put up. A resting bitch face, through and through. “How’d you sleep?”

“Decently well. I'm still jetlagged,” you admit, only realizing then that this is what your morning routine would look like if you and him— _‘ah, shit_ , _this is exactly why Goro was worried_ ,’ you think, immediately frowning as you try and turn the subject.

“The yukata...thank you. It’s beautiful.” And then you pause because it’s beginning to dawn on you—the implications of accepting such a gift. The night high has turned into a sobering morning as the bitterness of coffee washes down your throat, offering you a lease on life that you might not necessarily want. "You didn't have to do that."

But it’s too late for that now.

“I wanted to.” He studies your outfit—it’s casual: a pair of shorts, a t-shirt tucked in, and some old sneakers you dug out from the bottom of your suitcase. “Are you going home today?”

“Yeah. It’s my day off,” you smile. “My grandpa and grandma are probably waiting. Gonna try and catch some fish for them before the festival tonight.”

He looks mildly perplexed by this revelation, as if you've just offered him some power-up mushroom. “You know how to fish?”

“A little bit.” Your smile only widens as you down the remaining contents of your coffee. “Contrary to popular belief, I’m pretty good in water."

He blinks, “Why would that be contrary to popular belief?”

“Because—” You look at your twiggy little arms and sigh. No use in dissecting a joke when all the humor is lost upon release. “Never mind. I was just joking.”

He pauses. Nods a little. “What was the joke?"

 _‘God this guy is so tenacious_ ,’ you think, forcing a smile that looks more and more strained by the second. "I was being self-deprecating. It's--an American thing," you say, very aware how lame that sounds as you heave a sigh.

“Can you tell your mom thanks for having me?” You ask, and he nods, looking very stiff about it. “Do you have any plans this weekend or are you planning on practicing?”

He considers your questions with great care, lowering his gaze at the volleyballs littered in his yard, “Practicing.”

_‘Oh, that’s it?’_

You halfheartedly expect him to say more, but he doesn’t, which makes you feel kind of guilty. The rest of his house is empty—not even his mom his home, and his dad is probably off in America—which leaves him woefully, woefully alone. No siblings, no family, not even a pet to keep him company.

And, gee, there’s certainly some irony here: he’s in his hometown, and yet there’s no sign of home for him to truly return to.

“Do you wanna come with me?” You ask, fingers curling around the handle of your empty coffee mug. “Murata’s small—definitely not as big compared to Sendai—but we have the festival tonight, and I can show you the lake I fish at."

The corners of his lips tip up to form the faintest smile, “Yes. I’ll come.”

***

Murata is a 40-minute train ride from Sendai and you find yourself rattling off stupid facts about your hometown—" _we only have about 11,000 people living there_ , _so everyone knows everyone"; "it’s the prettiest in the wintertime because our native tree is the pine tree"; "almost everyone lives in a traditional-styled house and some of the elders still use a hearth to cook"_ —and for the most part, he pays attention, nodding and interjecting with a question here and there.

“You speak of it so reverently,” he states, after you finish telling him about the farms you and your friends used to sneak into at night—and the farmhands whose hounds would chase you only to fall prey to the jar of peanut butter you’d brought along to coerce them.

“I do?” It surprises you more than you think because you’ve since considered Los Angeles your home base—what you know of Murata is purely from the most formative memories you may or may not have buried. (Some of them, you think, you must’ve conjured up from the depths of your childish imagination.)

“Yes.” He looks out the window, watching city turn to farmland as the train trucks along the pathway. “You speak as if you still live there.”

“Oh. That's interesting,” you say, but you wonder if that’s really true as you lower your gaze to your lap, staring at how tan your legs have gotten since you’ve moved to a new city. "I guess it's just a force of habit."

You think you quite like the glow of your skin, but Murata’s winters are blisteringly cold—and moving back would mean your legs would turn into the color of snow.

"You sound happy."

You blink. He's not quite looking at you, but there's a strange vacancy in his face that looks like satisfaction. It occurs to you only then that your roles have essentially shifted: he's getting to know you, _practically every facet of you_ , and you're on the receiving end of all these observations that _you're_ supposed to be giving. And you _should_ feel weird about it -- and yet.

"It's because I am," you say, a slow, _crushing blush_ blooming onto your face like a water painting.

***

“Well, this is it.”

Your house sits on a slope of a hill on the outskirts of town. It’s traditional-styled, a minka house covered in tatami mat flooring, with an open veranda, a hearth, and a winter kotatsu that’s remained untouched by heat now that you’re in the thick of summer.

Your closest neighbor is about three miles down the road—and it’s quiet here, eerily so. No, not eerily. _Peacefully_.

“It’s nice,” Ushjima concludes, taking a look around the living space before setting his bag on the ground. “Where’s your family?”

You glance around. “I dunno.” And head into the hall, where you see nothing and hear nothing. “I’m gonna take a look around—stay here for a sec.”

You know these walls—you _know_ the cut in the floor you have to step over to avoid getting a splinter. _You know these screen doors_ , each one of them with a gap in the floor that lets out a stream of air from the outside in. You know the smell of this place--like cooked rice and mint flowers, the embers of your childhood that reels you back to where it all began.

You head down until you reach the last room at the end of the hall, where you slide open the door and find grandpa and grandma playing a game of shogi by the open veranda overlooking the faraway lake.

“You’re _late,"_ he says, glancing at you over his shoulder.

“Grandpa! Sorry, I forgot what time you said to be home.” You beam, hugging him from behind, as he pats you gently on the arm while you meet grandma’s gaze across their table of shogi. “Grandma, you look well. Did you eat yet?”

“We did.”

Nothing’s changed. Even after all this time.

Ushijima is right. All the world could burn and Murata would stay the same. Grandpa and grandma look exactly how they did the last you saw them—dragging you across the finish line at the train station to say goodbye. It’s hard to believe they’re still playing the same game of shogi with one another, even 15 years later.

Grandma stands and pats you on the cheek, "You've grown so big."

"Too skinny," says grandpa, crossing his arms over his chest. "Where'd all your muscle go? Drop it on your flight here?"

You press a kiss to his face, "I missed you too," you tell him, ruffling his head of snow-white hair.

Then you turn to grandma, smiling. "There’s someone I want you to meet."

***

Grandpa sizes up Ushijima with a discerning eye, as if checking for fleas and ticks from a puppy dog.

“Tall,” he says, at last, when the silence starts stretching too long—and you have to physically restrain yourself from face-palming because _what kind of assessment is that? "_ And strong. You could learn a thing or two from him." He meets Ushijima's gaze and offers him a smirk that spells trouble. "You would loan my granddaughter here a pound of muscle or two, wouldn't you?"

"If it were possible, yes."

For whatever reason, you know he means it.

"Make sure you include that in your story," says grandpa. "Tall and generous."

Grandma smiles at him, “And handsome.”

You roll your eyes, “ _Grandma_.”

The smile that forms on Ushijima’s face is so faint you would’ve probably missed it had it not been for you studying him to gauge a reaction.

“He’s the one I told you about! The one who found me in Sendai.” You practically burst, having held onto this secret for so long while waiting for them to finish their assessment of him. “Grandpa said I probably made it all up because I was bored.”

And when you catch the old geezer _rolling his eyes_ \-- turns out you _did_ inherit that bad habit from somewhere -- you nudge Ushijima in the arm. “Go ahead—tell them."

He does. From the beginning. _I was on my way home from school and stopped by the bakery and heard some crying from the alleyway next door_. _I thought it was an abandoned puppy, but it turns out it was her_.

Well, that’s sort of cutting details short -- and you could do without the dog comparison -- but you’re not about to complain now.

“Ha!” You point at grandpa. “You owe me 10,000 yen.”

“You don’t remember what time to get home but you remember a silly bet we made 15 years ago," he mutters.

You beam, which makes grandma laugh. “What can I say? I like to tend to my grudges. It's a full-time job.” And then you look around. “Where’s dad?”

“Where else?” says grandpa, resuming his seat by the shogi board. "He's visiting your mother."

 _Or what's left of_ _her_ , you think.

"That's fine," you turn away. "We were going to go fishing anyway."

***

“Are you sure you don’t want to wait for your father?”

“Nah.” You guide Ushijima down the side of a cliff, where the lake sits. “He won’t be home for a while.”

He studies your outfit—a full-body wetsuit, a pair of goggles on your head, along with a pair of flippers in your hands. “I thought when you said fishing, you meant with a pole,” he goes on, stopping short at the shore where there's a bevy of bedrock and moss. "I didn't know you were going to spearfish."

"It's the only way to fish around here," you tell him. "Easier to catch a carp with a blade than with a hook."

"When was the last time you did this?" He asks, as you struggle to set up your spear with resounding failure as you miss the prongs that were supposed to latch onto the tip. "This seems dangerous."

"I've been practicing, don't worry," you tell him, finally clipping your equipment right as you slip on your goggles. "I can hold my breath for four minutes underwater now."

"Is that supposed to be good? How should I gauge that in comparison?"

From your pocket, you fish out your phone and pass it to him. "Just--hold onto this for me. And watch."

Before he gets a chance to protest, you wade into the water and dive.

***

For a while, he sits by the waterside, waiting for your return.

Your phone has been buzzing nonstop for the past 15 minutes--missed calls from unknown numbers, text messages asking you to call back when you get the chance, but it's the particularly shrill _ding_ that you get from your inbox that makes him jerk his gaze towards the screen.

_**subject** : re: 36 questions_   
_**body** : _

_so have you fallen in love with him yet?_

_love,_

_sam_

Oh?

"Mission complete!" You practically sing, emerging from the water with a giant carp in your hands--a single spear protruding from its gills. "Thought I was gonna be rusty, but apparently I've still got it."

"That--you--"

"All in a day's work," you say, stuffing the fish into the cooler full of ice before slamming the top shut. You beam at him, taking off your goggles and flippers and slinging your spear over your back. "Let's go home."

***

"You're limping."

You are--pretty pathetically too. As you make your way up the cliff and back onto the main road, Ushijima stares at your foot with all the worry in the world as you throw him a smile that reeks of insincerity. "I stepped on a piece of driftwood," you tell him. "There's a splinter--it's not a big deal. It'll dry up and go away in a few days."

When you get to the open veranda of your house, he sets down the cooler and immediately takes off to the bathroom without another word. You wonder if you've ticked him off in some way, but when he returns, you see a basin of hot water and a pair of tweezers in his hands--and you _know_ instinctively that he's been rummaging around in your cabinets.

"Hey, aren't you supposed to ask for permission before you start making yourself comfortable?" You say with absolutely no resolve as he takes a seat next to you.

"I couldn't find a first-aid kit," he says, lowering his gaze. "Let me see your foot."

"Seriously, I'm fine."

"You're not _fine_. You were limping."

He grabs your ankle, turning your sole up to get a better vantage point on the very obvious wooden spike that's splintered its way into your skin.

"Hey, I'm ticklish, OK?" You frown, whatever determination you initially had vanishing into dust as he examines the state of your wound. "If you're going to do it, be quick."

"You're lucky the splinter didn't fracture on our walk up," he states, grabbing the tweezers and dipping them into water. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Truthfully, you don't know. "I can handle a little pain," you offer, but it's apparently not the answer he wants to hear because he shoots you a glare before lowering his gaze back to your foot.

It's a pretty strange phenomenon--watching how much effort and care he's putting into one little splinter. He's...oddly handsome when he's focused. You noticed it when he was practicing, but it's nothing compared to seeing the real deal up close.

You're not sure if it's the heat, or the amount of restraint he's putting into not accidentally stabbing you in the foot, but there's a bead of sweat forming over his left eyebrow as he lowers the tweezers--

\--and plucks out your splinter.

"Ouch!"

You throw your neck back, cradling your head gently as a jolt of pain comes blazing up your leg--into your spine, _into your freaking brain_. "That freaking hurt," you hiss, and he offers you a look of utter complacency as he dumps the water outside and drops the tweezers into the empty basin.

"It would've hurt more if you left it in," he says--and instinctively you know he's right.

He rummages through his bag and pulls out a roll of athletic tape before moving forward to wrap your foot.

You don't say much, wondering if you should add this to your story.

(Maybe you just want to savor this moment for your own.)

"You're...really strange," you tell him, still studying his face of concentration and wondering why it is he's putting so much focus on something so minute. "Why are you so nice to me?"

He cuts the tape with his hand, tucking the end into the folds.

"Because I like you."

Oh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ushjima....man.....ushijima......
> 
> festival is next chapter IM EXCITED
> 
> im on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt)
> 
> [WATCH](https://youtu.be/NokTSpMH44A)


	5. a town where you live

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, fingers crawling down your spine. It sends a shiver through your skin when he finds a resting place on the dimple of your back. “Can I kiss you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual.... everything i write balloons.... hoping to keep this to 7-8 chapters....

Neither of you mention that moment again.

It’s an unspoken covenant. He must have some understanding that admitting that kind of confession aloud means putting you _and_ your job at risk.

And _you._ You know _for sure_ that reciprocating or acknowledging those feelings offers you no plausible deniability. You have to calculate these things one hundred miles an hour -- your job security, your story, your _career_ \-- because as much as you hate to admit it, they come before whatever steel-winged butterflies you have in your gut.

Not that you have much time to consider them, as dad comes sauntering through the front door.

He looks older, not much wiser, and smells like cigarette smoke all the same. "D-dad!" The sight of him alone is enough to make you stand up straight, bow, and lower your gaze.

Ushijima, for what it’s worth, follows suit, bowing in respect as dad closes the door behind him.

As you stand up to meet his gaze, to offer a greeting, he wraps his arms around you in a bone-crushing hug that has your feet dangling off the ground.

It startles you so much you’re literally speechless, all wind gone from your lungs as your heart starts spinning and your stomach starts feeling it's going to combust from the inside out.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers, stroking the back of your head.

“I missed you too,” you tell him, closing your eyes and feeling his fingers unlock and pry away behind your neck.

When he pulls back, hands on your shoulders to study you—every part of you that’s expanded since the last time you saw him, you realize there are tears in his eyes.

“You’ve grown so much,” he says, softly. “So big. Like—”

He jerks his gaze, as if suddenly remembering there's someone else in the room, and turns towards Ushijima.

“You must be Wakatoshi,” he says, smiling with a hand outstretched. “Grandma and grandpa told me you’re Rin’s next story. Professional volleyball player, right?”

"Yes, sir."

“But he's just here for the festival,” you tack on.

“Oh? For the festival?” Dad looks at you curiously, but immediately dismisses whatever thought he’s having when he sees you’re not smiling or matching his temperament. “Wow. You’re probably the tallest person I’ve ever met. What’re you? Six two? Three?”

“Six four.” Ushijima takes his hand, shakes it.

Dad pats you on the head, “Well? Grandma told me you brought back carp for lunch. Let’s eat,” he beams and suddenly you feel like a little girl all over again, proud of yourself because your dad is proud. “Before you head out to the festival later tonight, of course."

**

You tell dad _everything_.

Your life story—from when you landed in LA, to when Uncle Ikyou picked you up from the airport, to learning English from watching _PBS Kids_ , to graduating high school as salutatorian, and to getting into college and finishing your degree early with a job prospect on the horizon.

Then you tell dad about Ushijima, the story you’re working on, but more importantly, the story of how you met.

“Sounds a lot like fate,” says dad.

“ _Wow_. OK.” You resist the urge to roll your eyes at him because dad's a romantic at heart and you most certainly are not. (Years of living through LA's dating scene has kept you jaded and wary.) “That’s definitely not what I was going for, but alright.”

“Or the red thread of marriage,” grandma tacks on.

You resist the urge to bury your face in your half-eaten bowl of rice, “ _Grandma, please_.”

Ushijima smiles, but it’s so quick—so fast that you practically miss it.

Grandpa looks less than amused, “What more is it than happenstance?” He says, making you breathe a sigh of relief that feels a lot like butterflies. _Finally, someone with reason,_ you think _._ “Fortune favors the bold, or in this case, dumb luck.”

“Hurtful, but fair,” you quip, standing up from your seat. “Anyway, I’m _full_.” You turn to Ushijima, who’s working on his third bowl of rice. “We should get ready for the festival."

“Let’s take a walk,” dad interjects, standing from his seat. And for whatever reason, you know instinctively what this is going to be about. “You should stretch your legs a bit before you head out.”

You look at Ushijima, who offers you a nod.

“Keep Wakatoshi company,” dad says to grandma, patting her gently on the shoulder.

**

The both of you walk down the long, winding pathway past the rice paddies, away from the sunset, where the road has only one lane.

You start rattling off casual insincerities: _how’s the weather? How’s the farm? How’s grandma and grandpa?_ And for the most part, dad answers in kind: _weather’s the same; you know Murata’s the most beautiful in the winter_. _The farm is the same, too. And grandma and grandpa are doing well._

And then you come to a stop at the hill overlooking the rest of Murata. The lights are flickering in the distance, lanterns lit for the festival. People are starting to swarm the mouth of the road like a network of ants, but the sight is a familiar one—it rings true to something inside you that makes you swell with pride. An understated thing you can’t quite put your finger on.

“I wanted what was best for you,” says dad, taking a seat on a flat rock by the pine tree to look at the sight before him. “Sending you to Los Angeles—there wasn’t a day that went by that I wasn’t thinking of you.”

“I know,” you reply, staying still next to him. “It took me time to accept that. I was mad at you for a long time before I got over it."

For a while, the both of you muck around in silence, just watching the sun die down—watching the sky bloom in reds and purples you’ve never seen without the wear of artificial city lights. _‘The sunsets in Tokyo are the best, but the sunsets in Murata are unmatched_ ,’ you think.

“Why didn’t you and mom ever get divorced?” You ask, taking a step closer to the edge. You can’t quite look at dad in the eye because you know that even though he’s expecting this question, it’ll cost him in a way you can’t quite imagine. “You know she hated it here. She wanted to live in the city, but you…why didn’t you just let her go?”

 _‘And why did you send_ me _away?’_

“I considered it,” says dad. “It was always on the table, but she wouldn’t leave because of you.”

You pause, turning around.

There’s a shadow on dad’s face that’s stemming from the last bastion of sunlight against your back. Slowly, you come closer and closer until he’s completely enveloped in the darkness—and when you can’t quite make out his features, you take a seat next to him on the flatrock.

“You remember her at her best,” says dad, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear for you. “You never saw her darkness. Never saw the broken parts of her she kept buried away. Because you were a child. Because you didn’t know any better.”

It hits you like a freight train.

You lean against dad’s shoulder and take his hand in yours—his hand, completely calloused, blistered, and molded over by the wears of time. Tan because he toils all day in the sun. “I love you,” you tell him, and he gives your hand—small and smooth—a squeeze before pressing a kiss against your forehead.

“Let’s go home,” he says. “You have a festival to get ready for, don’t you?”

**

The yukata is beautiful.

You take great care to fold the robes, fasten the sash, and secure your bearings with the obi that grandma helps you tie. “You’ve grown into such a fine young lady,” she tells you, taking a step towards the mirror to study your final look.

“I feel like that couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m still figuring out something new every day.” Blithely, you do a little twirl, taking stock of how you look from behind as well as in front.

“That’s the beauty of growing older,” she says, offering you an arm as she leads you into the hallway.

When you arrive at the entrance, you find Ushijima wearing a yukata too—albeit one that’s dark blue with a gray obi that clips him firmly in the waist. You feel like you’ve been pierced in the heart by some cupid’s arrow, but instead of stopping you dead in your tracks, your chest is threatening to burst out of your ribcage with how fast the blood is pumping.

_‘What the hell—is that what it’s like to be handsome? You just look good no matter what you wear? Like… a freaking samurai? Or a model?'_

He catches sight of you and immediately turns red.

“You look really nice,” you quip, cheerfully, only noticing then that grandma has let go of your arm.

You think if you act casual enough, you might actually start believing none of this actually matters, but when he meets your gaze, studying the deer embroidered in your yukata, you know you’re not fooling anyone.

Because it _does_ matter.

“You look pretty.”

Your face flushes red. Sometimes you forget how straightforward he is.

There’s a flash—and you blink, seeing colors in the corner of your eyes that take you by surprise until you realize you're staring into the cylinder of an old digital camera.

“Oh, come now. Take a better one,” says grandma.

Grandpa dangles the camera out of her grasp, “This one’s good enough,” he states, squinting at the screen. “How do I get back to the other screen?”

“It’s this button,” says grandma.

“You made the screen black, woman!”

When neither of them are paying attention, you escape out the front door with Ushijima following close from behind.

Both of you are smiling.

**

The festival is just how you remember it.

There are vendors that fill up the main street--kids laughing and shrieking over _kingyo sukui_ , a game meant to entice them with baby goldfish.

You find yourself by the rifle booth, where Ushijima has just bullseyed every moving target in one fell swoop to win a toy duck. "You just have to be good at everything, huh," you tell him with zero resolve as he hands the duck off to some crying toddler who apparently can't catch a break. You make a mental note of his generosity--the fact the he genuinely does not care he's good at this. "Is this what being an athlete is like? Everything is just a joke to you?"

He considers it, seriously. "I don't believe so."

"I was--oh, never mind." You usher him towards _kingyo sukui._ "My turn to shine. Have you ever played this--"

"Rin? Oh my god--is that you?"

You whip around and see two familiar faces standing in the crowd--a woman with a pixie cut in a pink yukata and a man next to her wearing a t-shirt that says "MASTER BAITER" underneath a picture of a sea bass.

“Akari!” You beam. “Taishi. I--is that really you?"

“In the flesh,” says Akari, pointing at herself with her thumb. “Wow. It's been a while, hasn't it?"

Taishi grins, "We almost didn't recognize you without your long hair. It was practically down your butt the last time we saw you!"

"Y-yeah!" You're surprised they actually remember, but the shock of seeing them is nothing compared to the warmth you feel seeing two familiar faces. "You guys...you guys are exactly the same. It's like nothing has changed at all."

"Speak for yourself," says Akari, turning to Ushijima. "You are?"

He bows, "My name is Ushijima Wakatoshi."

"Boyfriend?" She grins at you.

"More like...an old friend," you say, nodding to yourself once you feel the familiarity of those words in your mouth. He seems pleased enough with this answer too. "Remember that boy I told you about in Sendai?"

Taishi blinks, "Oh right! You were, like, obsessed with finding him again because you said you were gonna marry-- _oof!_ "

At once, Akari jabs him in the ribs, shooting you a smile, "No shit. So you actually ended up meeting him, huh?" She offers Ushijima a look. "Not gonna lie--really thought you were fiction."

He smiles, weakly, looking at you.

"Well, what're you doing tomorrow?" She goes on while Taishi nurses his bruised ribs. "I wanna catch up with you."

“I’m—well, actually I’m visiting mom tomorrow,” you say.

Akari and Taishi exchange glances, “We’ll come with you.”

“A—are you sure? You really don’t have to.”

Taishi grins, “Not like we have much else to do."

There's a swell in your chest. You feel at home here, like nothing's changed, not even all these years between you and an ocean apart.

There's an explosion in the sky--fireworks blooming in bright reds and whites.

"Gotta go!" You say, grabbing Ushijima by the sleeve of his yukata. "Hurry--there's something I wanna show you!!"

**

“It’s here,” you say, taking a seat on the bedrock by the lake—looking out at the sky to see only the smoke of fireworks left glazed over the sky.

“Crap, I think we missed it.”

He takes a seat next to you.

You run a hand through your hair, “I wanted to show you the fireworks here,” you tell him, frowning. “Because you can see them twice—once in the sky and once in the reflection of the water. And they look like flowers--oh, never mind. You'd have to see it to understand."

You take a breath, exhale, and feel a coil in your neck that makes you crane your head back before letting it hang low in absolute dejection.

“We’re too late.”

“It’s fine,” he says, taking a seat next to you. “How do you know about this place?”

“My mom used to take me here every festival. She was the one who discovered it first,” you explain, once the silence begins to settle. “No one else in Murata would come here—so we would scream the stupidest things with no consequence. Whatever was annoying us.” And then. “Because nothing counts here.”

You can be unapologetically yourself.

You can say what you want and _do what you want_. Because no one is there to bear witness, therefore making whatever you say or do completely irrelevant. Mom used to scream about the farm, waking up at the crack of dawn, and being _bored_ , and you used to laugh along with her.

 _Because nothing counts here_.

“FUCK. DISNEY. LAND. AND. THEIR. STUPID. OVERPRICED. CHURROS,” you screech, voice booming across the water, only to fade into silence.

You turn your gaze to Ushijima, who’s staring at you—utterly baffled.

“Your turn.”

But that bafflement turns into something more remorseful as he lowers his gaze to the water, thinking. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t have anything in particular I want to complain about.”

“Suit yourself,” you huff, cupping your chin. “Just remembered that I offered.”

He smiles, following your gaze to the reflection of the moon in the water.

For a while, you're quiet, sussing out the atmosphere between you that feels more and more like a mutual understanding than ever before.

"Can I ask you something?"

He turns to you. Nods.

“How did you react when your parents got divorced?”

He’s quiet when he thinks. The sounds of nature have never been louder now that the fireworks have died down. It isn’t until he takes a breath that you realize he’s still mulling it over.

“I was sad, of course,” he says, finally breaking the silence as the sleeve of his robes brushes up against you. “But I knew there was no other way for them to be happy unless they split."

You're not surprised. He always did seem wise beyond his age. Silly, yet wise. It's an odd dichotomy, one that you don't quite understand.

And yet.

Slowly, you undo the clasp of your obi.

His eyes are instinctively drawn to whatever movement you’re making in the dark—as you toss away the belt, followed by the thin sash of the koshihimo band underneath. Suddenly your yukata is loose, and when you wriggle out of it like a worm, he notices you’re not wearing anything underneath except your undergarments: a sleek black bra along with a pair of black boy shorts that hug the curve of your glutes.

“What’re you doing?”

Before he gets the chance to hear an answer, you wade into the water and dive headfirst into the lake.

When you surface on the other side, it’s with a smile—soft and coy—like a damned siren he knows is filled with a world of trouble, maybe more, and yet can’t quite say no to. It’s a damning thought he simply can’t admit, and yet, both of you are becoming vaguely aware of its existence in simultaneous realizations as he stands, unties the belt of his robes, and drops his yukata to the ground.

 _‘Nothing counts here,’_ you think to yourself with a dreamy little smile as he wades into the water beside you.

The breeze sifts through and sends a chill down your spine as you swim out into the open water, where the moon touches down on the surface of the lake in full bloom. You can hear him follow you from behind—like a creature of the sea, so silent and calm, only a ripple in the water to tell of its tale in all its furtive glory.

You stop.

It’s sudden—as you turn around to face him. You can no longer feel the bedrock underneath your feet. It’s a pretty thrilling realization, that you’re relying solely on yourself to keep afloat. Whatever creatures lie beneath the surface are surely making way for you—or at the least, waiting in wake.

 _‘Nothing counts here,’_ you think, coming closer and closer until you’re wrapping your arms around his shoulders—broad and strong—and you’re feeling the warmth of his skin radiate against yours.

Nothing counts here, you tell yourself, but the truth is— _nothing counts here because you can be yourself, totally and completely_ , _without fear of retribution._

So when he leans in and wraps his arms around your waist, you tell yourself again _it doesn’t count_ and try to forget the why: _it doesn’t count **because** you can be yourself._

You press your forehead against his, feeling his breathing even out with yours.

Slowly, he tips his chin up to meet your gaze.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, fingers crawling down your spine. It sends a shiver through your skin when he finds a resting place on the dimple of your back. “Can I kiss you?”

 _Nothing counts here_ , you think, nodding.

You lean in slowly, but he closes the distance first, lips meeting yours in a cold, _cold_ union that tastes a lot like the freshwater of the lake.

There's an explosion from the sky, and the two of you pull away to see one last firework blossom in the sky, pooling light in the water around you.

"Guess we weren't too late," you say, feeling a rush of relief pour over you like a tsunami-wave of delirium and joy.

He reaches out to cup your cheek, "I guess so."

It's hard to look him in the eye--he's stupidly handsome, and even worse, _very unaware of the fact that he's stupidly handsome_.

"Thank you again for the yukata," you interject, softly. "I wanted to give you something in return, but..."

 _But that would jeopardize my job._

But that would jeopardize my reputation.

But.

"This was my gift," he says, and it takes you a moment to realize he's talking about you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> up next: volleyball game, return to LA, and meeting ushijima's dad WOO


	6. red thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m ready to talk about it,” you say, softly. “But I don’t know if you’re going to like what I say.”
> 
> “Then don’t say it.” He takes your hands, threading his fingers in with yours. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FOR MIDYCUTE!! these next two chapters are dedicated to her T_T_T <3 thank you for donating to equality for flatbush YOU ARE THE REAL MVP!!

“YOU HOOKED UP?”

You recoil, tugging your cell phone away from your face.

“Holy _shit_. Wow. What the hell. WE didn’t talk for— _what_ —two days? And this happens? You move fast. Like, really fast. Anyway, get to the good stuff. How far did you guys go?”

“Sam.”

“Come _on_. I’m not getting any. I'm bored. And I'm tired of reading. Let me live vicariously through you."

“Ah, how’s the studying coming along? Your bar exam is in July, ri—"

“—hey, don’t change the subject! That’s my job.”

You run your fingers through your wet hair, staring up at the moon from the safety of the open veranda. “All we did was kiss,” you tell her, twirling a lock between your fingers until the water starts dripping from the other end.

**

The kiss gets greedier—less playful and more desperate.

His skin is tantalizingly warm, and when you run your fingers down his back, it feels like you're feverish by association. You’re halfheartedly wondering why steam isn’t already rolling off the surface of this lake as the both of you move closer and closer to the center point where the moon is pooling light.

A shiver runs through your body when he pulls you in closer. You thread your fingers behind his neck, holding on for dear life as he’s treading in the deep end. Both of you part to catch your breaths and when you do, you get a good look at him—his eyes are hazy and the adam’s apple in his neck is bobbing up and down with each deep breath he takes. You can _feel_ your heart thrum inside your ribcage, and had it not been for the ambiance of the lake, the moon spilling into its own reflection, and the freedom of the water, you would’ve agonized over this decision.

But it feels so, _so_ right.

 _This is exactly where you need to be_.

This is exactly where you _should_ be.

“Can I touch you?”

Half of you wishes he could read the room a little better—but the other half of you finds it endearing, a little sexy even. His voice is so deep, and you’re pressed up so close against his chest, you can feel the strum of his words vibrate against your skin.

You nod, feeling your waist go cold in the water where he drops one arm, fingers crawling to the hem of your underwear. His cheeks turn pink, he lowers his gaze—he’s pausing.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, softly, cupping his face.

He wraps his arm back around your waist, looking up at you, “I don’t want to ruin something so beautiful,” he murmurs, quietly, squeezing you tightly against him as his hands lie flat against the dimples of your back. He's being oddly respectful and hesitant, but you suppose that's part of his charm.

You reach beneath the surface, taking his hand in yours—threading your fingers together. “I want you to,” you whisper, and whatever code he’s been clinging onto falls to the wayside because he lets you guide his fingers to the lining of your underwear. You push the fabric aside for him, but he finds his nerve and sinks one finger between your folds, feeling the sticky warmth of you as he pushes inside until he's buried at the knuckle.

A soft whimper escapes your lips as you dig your face into his shoulder.

“Am I hurting you?” He asks, softly, the finger buried inside you going limp as you shudder against his touch.

“ _No, don’t stop_ ,” you tell him, but it comes out a whisper, completely pleading and haggard. “Please.”

With the last bit of your strength, you press his thumb to the peak between your folds.

He starts kneading it—he might be slow to start, but he’s fast on the uptake—and when you moan into his neck, you can feel his breathing hastening at a rapid pace.

"Does that feel good?" He asks, and he sounds miraculously sincere--genuinely wanting to know.

You nod.

He kisses your breast through the fabric of your bra and all you can do is mentally scold yourself for not removing it earlier, but the friction of his finger inside you, and the incessant kneading he’s doing against the peak between your folds is making your entire sex ache. You’re bucking your hips into his hands, water sloshing all around, and you feel the beginning of an erection pressing stiffly against your stomach.

You whimper again, wondering what it’d be like to actually fuck him here and now, what it'd be like to have his cock buried deep inside you, but the reality is: you’re getting dizzy, feeling delirious as you lose yourself in the motions of getting fingered.

“You’re really tight,” he says and doesn’t sound remarkably smug about it.

“I know,” you tell him because truthfully you don’t have the strength to reply with something sexy or coy. _You know_ and that's all there is to it.

All you can do is hold onto him for dear life as he continues thrusting his finger in and out of you, just gentle enough stop you from tipping over the edge, _but curled up enough to make you shudder_. Truthfully, you've all but forgotten how big his hands are, _how long his fingers are_ , and as he pumps in and out faster and faster, you find yourself searching for an itch you can't quite find, until--

Your climax arrives in slow, _arduous_ waves, and it forces you to cling onto him for dear life as you whimper quietly into his shoulder.

He doesn’t notice you’re cumming until you’re quivering against him—and then he pulls out in an instant, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you into a hug. “Are you OK? What’s wrong?” He asks, and all you can do is pull back, meet his gaze, and press your lips against his.

He’s startled by the suddenness of it, but melts just as fast, his fingers winding into your hair as he holds onto you like you’re the only thing in the world worth holding onto.

When he pulls back, he realizes there are tears coming down your cheeks.

He brushes them away for you and pulls you against his chest.

**

“Really? All you did was kiss?” Sam yawns on the other end, obnoxiously loud. “So what did you do afterwards? Talk about your dreams and shit?”

You smile into the receiver, “That’s actually exactly what we did.”

“UGH. You really are no fun. I'm hanging up now!"

**

Both of you start changing while the light of the moon ripples against the water’s surface.

You’re hypervigilant when you slip on your yukata over your shoulders, unclasping the back of your wet bra and facing the other way while you roll off your underwear. You stuff your undergarments into the pocket sleeve of your yukata before tying up all the loose ends, vaguely aware you’re completely naked underneath those layers of cloth.

“Should we talk about this?”

Ushijima’s already dressed, tying up the final sash around his yukata.

“Can we do it tomorrow?” You ask, looking out at the full moon before meeting his gaze. “It’s late. And the trains are going to stop running soon.” But one has to wonder what that has to do with anything as you pause, the corner of your lips tipping up into a smile. “You should stay over.”

"Your father--"

"--he won't mind," you tell him. "He'd probably say the same thing."

He looks like he wants to say something but stops himself halfway—he nods.

The both of you climb out of the foliage, back to the festival where the stalls are beginning to close up shop. Only a few patrons are out now—the old geezers from the farms who are still nursing their cheap beers over yakitori. One of them recognizes you, waves your way, and turns back to his conversation while you huddle towards the main road with Ushijima, who’s fallen completely quiet.

Murata has no streetlights and only one winding road, so the both of you are walking in the dark, feet against gravel and sand.

You look at the house at the end of the hill—not quite a house (maybe that's too generous), but an abandoned shack. You used to play hide and seek there with Akari and Taishi, both of whom were sure it was haunted by some vengeful yurei of the past.

“Did you always know volleyball was your dream?” You ask, suddenly.

He seems a little surprised by the question, but that surprise slowly melts into something of consideration as he lowers his gaze at the floor. “I did. It was my dream before I even knew it was my father’s dream,” he states. “What about you?”

“Being a journalist was never my dream,” you admit, feeling a little braver and honest with yourself tonight.

“So what is it?”

You point to the house out in the distance, “That.”

It takes the two of you half an hour to trek up the hill to reach it—and once you do, you feel somewhat embarrassed at the sight. It’s completely bare bones, nothing more than a cluster of half-torn walls and a fence that looks more like stakes in the ground. You could probably hold a sledgehammer and tear apart whatever’s left here and start from scratch.

“My mom used to say she was going to fix this place up—make it her passion project. We used to play house here,” you explain, sounding more and more hesitant as you come to a stop at what’s supposed to be the entrance. “She would say _I’m home_ and I’d tell her _welcome back_. It was…silly.”

You pause, remembering what it was like when she chased you across the floorboards of the shack while you shrieked with laughter. “It was her dream because she was bored, but it became mine instead."

He takes stock of the place with a discerning eye, stopping next to you to assess the damage.

“But…I guess it wouldn’t really matter,” you go on, feeling your voice wavering. “Since I have a home in LA now." A pause, as you stare at your own two feet. "It’s stupid.”

“—it’s not stupid,” he says. “That’s your dream. You should treasure it.”

You bow forward slightly to get a better look at his face and beam when you see him cross his arms over his chest.

You hop into the space where the doorway should be, “ _Okaeri nasai_.”

He shields his face and blushes.

"Tadaima."

**

“Jeez, don’t call me again until you get past PG.”

“Ha.” You laugh, laying down on the tatami mat to stare at the ceiling of your room. “Just say you miss me and call it a day.”

“I do. Sadly,” she sighs into the receiver. “I’m gonna throw you a welcome back party, alright? And we’re gonna get very drunk and very lit so we can bare our souls and talk about how sad we are.”

“Can’t wait,” you murmur. “But Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“No more than 12 people, OK?”

“But—”

“ _Seriously_. I don’t want the neighbors to call the cops on us again.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Love you, good night.”

“Love you, good morning.”

**

Morning comes in beams of light—filtering through the paper windows of your bedroom.

It’s been a long time since you’ve gotten a good night’s rest and the pain of jetlag is finally beginning to wear off, so you get up, get ready, and head to the kitchen to eat—where you find grandma and grandpa huddled over their game of shogi, and dad reading the newspaper by the kitchen counter.

 _‘Right, everyone here is a morning person,’_ you think to yourself, reaching for the canister of tea leaves on the lowest shelf. "Good morning!" You sing, cheerfully.

“Wakatoshi was up before the sun,” says dad, flipping the page of his newspaper.

You hum an old tune, “Was he now?"

“He’s a spritely young man,” grandpa tacks on, studying the board with eyes squinted. “He ran all the way to Ryuusei’s farm.”

 _‘Damn, that’s like a four-mile run just one way_ ,’ you think, calculating the distance quickly in your head. It begins to dawn on you that he probably went easy the day you decided to run with him in Tokyo, having stopped by the bridge just when you were feeling too tired.

“How was the festival?” asks grandma.

“Good. I bumped into Akari and Taishi.”

“Dumb and dumber,” grandpa snorts. “Those two haven’t changed a bit.”

“Neither have you.” You take a sip of your tea, peering at him over the edge of your mug to see him shrug. “I’m gonna go visit mom with them after I take a bath.”

Dad smiles, “Good.”

Grandma wrinkles her brows, “You take baths in the morning?”

“It’s an American thing,” says grandpa. “They do it in the movies all the time. Stupid and impractical.”

You feel yourself smile despite yourself.

_'Nothing has changed at all.'_

**

Mom’s grave sits at the far end of the cemetery—a stone monument carved with her name among many stone monuments. The flowers tucked into the metal vases are fresh (you’re not surprised since dad was only there a day ago).

Akari carries over a dipper and a bucket full of fresh spring water, “Man, it’s hot today.” She sets it down next to you as you reach for the dipper, pouring the water over the gravestone and turning it dark gray.

“Looks like Wakatoshi-kun and Taishi are getting along well,” she says, looking strangely peeved at the sight of two boys and the basket of offerings between them. “Though I guess that comes as no great surprise. Both of them look like meatheads.”

“Hey—there’s nothing wrong with that,” you quip, setting the dipper down.

“You would know. You’ve always liked meatheads.”

“Too true.” You brush a lock of hair behind your ear as you look at monument. "I'm surprised you remember."

"How could I forget? Your first three boyfriends in primary school were all on the baseball team."

"Yeah and they _sucked_. You could beat them with one arm behind your back."

"You're damn right."

You smile wistfully as Ushijima sets down the offerings of peaches and mangos before the grave.

Taishi kneels down next to you, “We should go fishing in the lake after this. Have a nice barbecue, swim around, lounge under the sun—y’know, like the good ol’ days.”

You clasp your hands together, winking, “I’ll think about it.”

“Think about the carp! We can grill it—did I tell you I brought a grill? It’s on the back of my truck—"

Akari kicks him in the back, sending him flying into the ground, “All you think about is food,” she states, plainly, taking the empty space next to you. “Alrighty then—let’s pray.”

You smile, nodding.

**

Owning a pickup truck in Los Angeles is a pretty stupid investment, what with the long drives, gas guzzling, and oil prices—but the pickup trucks that do exist in Los Angeles are obnoxious—stupidly big, wide enough to take up an entire lane.

Taishi’s pickup truck is small, with one row big enough for two people, and a back-end filled with all sorts of clutter.

“Sorry—didn’t have time to clean up,” he mumbles as he helps you step onto truck’s bed floor.

“All good,” you tell him, taking a seat against the wall right next to an old bike and a pile of scrap metal that you glance at with a shrug. “Good thing I got my tetanus shot."

Ushijima climbs in right after, taking a seat across from you next to a padded carpet. “Is this safe?”

“We won’t be going over forty an hour,” says Taishi, shutting the tailgate. He taps it twice with his knuckles. “Enjoy the ride—you’ll get the best view in Murata.”

You meet Ushijima’s gaze with a smile, “It’s true.”

Down the road you go, bumps aplenty as you grip onto the edge of the truck. Taishi’s right—you get a view of Murata that’s unmatched: the lake shining under the noon sun, the warm summer breeze, and the houses you pass by on the road next to their rice paddies and corn fields.

“You look happy.”

You blink, looking up to meet Ushijima’s gaze as the truck tumbles down the hill at a leisurely pace.

“I am happy,” you admit, glancing over your shoulder before settling back against the truck wall. When you realize he’s still looking at you, your face starts burning—blush creeping up like a watercolor painting. “What is it? You keep staring.”

The smile on his face is tired as he looks down at his lap, “It’s nothing.”

**

Ushijima watches you wriggle into your wetsuit, zipping it up to your bellybutton before you help Taishi with his suit.

“Wanna help me set up?” chirps Akari cheerfully, and he obliges quietly, walking over towards the truck where they start unloading bags of groceries, along with a picnic blanket that looks worn and used. “Who knows how long it’ll take those two to catch something."

He lowers his gaze, “Are they…”

Akari _snorts_. “No. You have nothing to worry about.” And then she cups her hand over her mouth, “I hope she doesn’t mind me saying— _oh, who cares_ —she only has eyes for you.”

It brings him more relief than he expects—and when he watches you dive in and surface from the other side, yelling something at your counterpart who's still struggling with the hook on his spear, he finds himself smiling.

As he helps her set up, she asks him about work, marvels about the fact that he’s a professional athlete (“I don’t think I’ve ever met one,” she says), and tells him a little bit about growing up in Murata, the old abandoned house you used to play tag in at night, and the way your mother used to take all three of you to the lake and teach you how to spearfish.

“She was an amazing woman,” says Akari, setting down the last of their belongings before motioning to the grill at the back of Taishi’s truck. “Can you help me with this?”

He obliges, picking it up with ease and setting it down to an empty plain far away from the trees. “Rin was devastated when she died,” she goes on, watching as Taishi emerges victorious with a sea bass in hand, only for it to slap him in the face and promptly jump back into the water. You emerge shortly after, laughing at him before diving back into the blue again.

Ushijima watches you from a distance, wondering, “If you don’t mind me asking…how did she pass?”

Akari pauses, crouching down to rip open the bag of coal for the grill, “She killed herself."

It's silent.

"Rin never said anything," says Ushijima, quietly.

"Can you blame her?" Akari smiles, sadly. "She probably wants to forget it."

**

You chew slowly on the seed of a watermelon, letting it bob between your tongue before spitting it into a napkin. “How’s the farm?” You ask, watching as Taishi cuts up another four slices.

“Same old,” says Akari. “It’s mosquito season, which sucks when you’re working in a rice paddy, but I can’t complain.” She glances at Taishi, who has at least five red welts on his left leg alone. “Some of us, luckily, don’t have sweet blood.”

You laugh, biting into another slice of watermelon, “And your dad?”

“Grumpy as always.”

You can imagine.

“What’s it like being a professional athlete, Wakatoshi-kun?” Taishi sets down the knife, grabbing himself a slice of pink watermelon. “Do you have a lot of fangirls? I bet you do. You’re tall, handsome—”

“— _we’re bonding here_ ,” Akari interjects, pausing when she looks at Ushijima’s face. “So about that day you guys met in Sendai—”

“—oh, so you’re allowed to ask questions and I’m not?”

“ _Your questions are stupid_ ,” she states. “Anyway, I thought about it—and it’s kind of serendipitous, right?”

You arch a brow, “Where is this going?"

“You guys met when you were little,” she says. “And now you’re meeting, under completely different circumstances again. _Right_?"

You exchange a glance with Ushijima, who looks nonplussed.

“…right,” you say, not quite getting it.

“It’s almost like you two were fated,” she says, cupping her chin to look at you with a smile. “As if there’s some red thread connecting you two by the pinky finger.”

Before you get in a word edgewise, Taishi says, with a mouthful of watermelon, “The original myth of the red thread said the couple met twice before their fate was sealed. That would make this number two, right?”

“The original myth also had the guy beat the girl over the eye with a rock,” Akari snaps.

“Oh my god.” You drop your head, trying not to laugh. “You guys sound like my grandma and grandpa. That’s literally the same exact thing they said too.”

Ushijima smiles.

*

“Remember to call,” says Taishi, helping you off the back of his truck. “And email. And text.”

“I will,” you say, bouncing off while Ushijima follows after you.

Akari pulls you into a hug so tight you gasp, “Don’t drop off the face of the earth again, OK?”

“I won’t.”

It takes you a moment to realize she’s holding back tears—probably for your sake—but neither of you acknowledge them because you know once you do, you’ll both start ugly-crying and it’ll be a whole mess. “I’ll visit soon,” you tell her, and she beams—so does Taishi.

They drive off together, not without sparing you a glance in the rearview window and waving goodbye.

“Back to real life,” you say, sighing.

Ushijima nods, “Back to real life.”

*

It feels like summer’s ending, as you say goodbye to grandma and grandpa, as dad drives the both of you to the station—as you buy your tickets at the terminal together and set off to find your seat on the bullet train.

When you finally put your bags down, you collapse, feeling the exhaustion of the weekend come upon you like a freight train of joy and delirium.

Ushijima takes a seat next to you—not across from you—and neither of you acknowledge it as he presses up against you.

It's shockingly empty at this hour, not a soul in sight. And maybe that's for the better, as you look out the window to see a dark sky--the Tokyo skyline a faraway dream come to fruition.

“I’m ready to talk about it. Or us. Or...what happened,” you say, softly, leaning against his shoulder. “But I don’t know if you’re going to like what I say.”

“Then don’t say it.” He takes your hands, threading his fingers in with yours. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

You look up at him, then back at where your hands are linked, and try not to blush when you feel his eyes burning against your face. With the softest whisper you can manage, you tell him _OK_ , feeling whatever worry you have in your heart drift away into nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, i've finally finished outlining the rest of these chapters.... 9... it will end @ 9.... *shakes fist at sky*


	7. call me by my name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Y’know, jealousy’s not a good look for you, Wakatoshi-kun,” says Tendo dreamily -- and the comment alone is enough to make Ushijima pick up his pitcher of beer and take one long gulp until it's empty.
> 
> “Another,” he says, and Tendo takes his cup, filling it up to the brim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again THIS IS FOR MIDYCUTE!! as is the next chapter LOVE U MY DEAR!!

“I read the copy you sent.”

You willow outside the stadium, staring up at the bright lights and the cardboard cut-out of Ushijima Wakatoshi standing next to you in his uniform alongside his cardboard teammates.

"And? What did you think?"

They’re all true to size—the one closest to your height would be Hoshiumi—and when you pretend to lean against Ushijima’s shoulder, acting a little too cheesy for your own good, you realize how much it pales in comparison to the real deal.

“It’s good. It's missing _something_ , but I’m sure you'll figure it out when you do your follow-ups.”

“Speaking of which—Ushijima's going to be visiting LA to see his dad a few weeks after I come back,” you tack on, feeling weirdly proud of this tidbit of information. “We should probably take some cover shots in the photo studio since he’s near the office.”

“Fantastic. I’ll set something up.” There’s some fussing on the other side, someone (probably your coworker) screaming _‘is that Rin?’_ and then silence. “Oh and Rin?"

You smile, “Yeah?”

“We’re gonna stick with the original title.”

“But, but--”

“ _You Don’t Know Him, But You Will._ That shit is _good_ and the higher-ups love it, so we’re keeping it. Give me some credit here, alright? It’s one of the best things I’ve ever come up with. Besides, it’s your job to write the story. It’s my job to sell it,” he goes on, sounding way too pleased with himself to be sincere. “Tell me how many people do you think are gonna buy a magazine whose cover story is _Bambi and Toto?_ This isn’t _Children's Digest_ or _Fantasy Weekly_.”

You frown, jerking away from the cardboard cutout of Ushijima and heading towards one of the open stands in the plaza selling jerseys. “Pretty sure those publications don't even exist,” you sigh, wearily.

“Exactly.” He laughs on the other end, static filling up your phone as you come to a stop at the back of the line. “Just leave the hard part to me. You worry about filling in the missing pieces."

“If you say so,” you tell him, feeling a wedge of disappointment as you hang up, put away your phone, and reach the counter of the stand, where you look at the available jerseys hanging on the wall.

The girl at the register beams at you.

“No. 11 jersey, please."

"Unfortunately we're out."

"Seriously?" You hang your head low. _You just wanted to do something nice and play fangirl for the day_. "How is that even possible? The game hasn't even started yet."

But it's your fault because you underestimated just how popular Ushijima Wakatoshi was in the grand scheme of things.

“I'm sorry,” says the girl at the register, looking very apologetic as she motions behind you. “The gentleman before you bought the last one. Maybe you can come back tomorrow?"

You glance over your shoulder.

It’s the expat from the bar.

He’s laughing with his friends. And as if some divine force has made it known you're staring his way, he turns around and looks right back at you.

His face lights up when he meets your gaze.

“Hey! Miss LA!” He calls out, and all you can do is resist the urge to facepalm. _Of all the stadiums and games in the world_ , it just had to be him. "Funny running into you here!"

“...New York,” you say, somewhat lamely, gathering what little dignity you have left before walking over to meet him halfway. You glance at the jersey in his hands, the No. 11 number, and Ushijima Wakatoshi's name emblazoned on the back. “Is there any way I can buy that jersey off you?"

He looks at the shirt once before looking at you again, “Oh, seems like I have something you nee—”

“—I’ll pay _double_.”

He laughs, “You can have it for free.”

Relief floods your veins. Maybe you misjudged this guy—maybe he really is a stand-up dude, albeit a little dorky—

“But you have to go on a date with me.”

Or maybe he's just an opportunistic fuck.

*

Every player on the team gets two tickets each game to give to family—to friends, _to acquaintances_. Some of them auction it off. Others gift them to the Make-A-Wish foundation. Ushijima gives you one ticket and tells you you should expect an old friend of his in the seat next to yours.

“You don’t have to speak to him,” he'd said—and gee, _that’s a strange thing to say about an old friend_ , but you decide not to question it as you make your way down the aisle towards your seat.

There’s a backpack in your chair and a guy next to it with the beadiest pair of eyes you’ve ever seen. _Mischievous_ is probably the first word that comes to mind when you catch sight of him, but the shaved head almost fools you into thinking he's some kind of monk from the wintery north.

“Excuse me, I think that’s my seat,” you say, motioning to his backpack and he _smiles_ at you, cupping his hand over his ear like he can’t hear you.

“ ** _I said I think that’s my seat_** ,” you say, just a bit louder, and the smile on his face widens as he leans in even more.

“I SAID THAT’S MY SEAT,” you shriek over the chorus of cheers, and he mock-winces, grabbing the strap of his bag, freeing up your space.

“Jeez, no need to yell—I was saving it for you,” he says, and when you offer him an incredulous look like _what does that even mean_ , he goes on: “I’m Tendo. Wakatoshi-kun told me about you. You're Nakajima-san, right?”

 _‘Oh, he told him about me,’_ you think, feeling a thump in your chest as you nod, slowly.

“That would be me.” You scan the arena to see Ushijima and his teammates stretching on the floor. As if he can sense your eyes weighing on him, he looks up and sees you, waving in your direction with a ghost of a smile as he catches sight of the jersey you’re wearing. “How do you know Ushijima, Tendo-san?”

Tendo cocks his head to the side, meeting your eyeline and blocking your view of the court, “Do you want the long story or the short story?”

*

The match starts and you get an essay from Tendo -- even though you specifically asked for the SparkNotes version of the story -- happy to tell you about his high school counterpart. _Miracle Boy_ , you learn, was his nickname, but that doesn’t really begin to describe the depths of their relationship because Tendo’s completely reverent to his greatness, if anything, a little fanboy-y, which can’t come as much of a surprise, given his disposition.

If you had a childhood friend who became a professional athlete— _oh wait, you did_.

You brush the thought off, taking mental notes of the quirky way Tendo talks, keeping track of the important stuff you might need for later. _Wakatoshi-kun was a beast in high school, no doubt thanks to me; Wakatoshi-kun might’ve gone to the most competitive school in Miyagi, but he’s sort of a dummy too; but that doesn’t matter because Wakatoshi-kun was born to be a professional volleyball player_. It goes on like that for some time and it's pretty funny to think that had you stayed in Miyagi, you might've ended up going to the same school as them.

Friends tend to opine their friends, but for some reason, you _believe_ it as you watch Ushijima take his spot at the baseline, ready to serve.

“And you, Rin-chan? How do you know him?”

He’s already getting familiar with you, but that’s OK because you don’t mind. He might be a little quirky and odd, but you can’t sense any malicious intent—so you go on.

“I’m writing a story on him."

“Oh? Wakatoshi-kun told me something a little different.”

“What’s that?”

Tendo smiles a crooked smile, sizing you up with eyes half-lidded, as if he’s sussed out some secret even you don’t know.

“He said you were childhood friends.”

Well, that’s not wrong either, but—

_**“Oi! MISS LA!”** _

You jerk around to see the expat and two of his friends come down the aisle, beers in their hands. “Remember you owe me a date!” He says, and you feel your insides physically curdle at the sight of him as you turn back around and look at the court with a frown.

“What’s that all about?” says Tendo, arching a brow.

You sigh, “I make very poor life decisions. That’s all.”

He nods, as if accepting it as fact.

But then he perks up, _watching you watch Ushijima_ hit a service ace that has the entire stadium roaring.

“What kind of poor life decisions are we talking?”

*

The game ends, as it does, and everyone starts filtering out the stadium, including you and Tendo, who seems insistent on ushering towards the entrance. “Y’know—a date’s not so bad,” he tells you, though it offers little comfort because you’re not exactly the kind of girl who goes back on her word. “You’ll get a free meal out of it—and _hey_ —isn’t that what life is all about?”

It’s not, but the ridiculousness is enough to make you laugh as you come to a full stop at the plaza outside, where the moon is out, the crowds are chattering, and the fangirls are taking photos with their homemade posters and memorabilia. (From what you can surmise, Kageyama’s face has been plastered on almost all the uchiwa fans you’ve seen.)

Ushijima manifests from one of the side doors, still in his uniform—soaked with sweat—and he manages to evade some of the fans who are loitering outside to make his way over.

Tendo hums, “Handsome, don’t ya think?”

You sigh, dreamily, “ _Ye—_ I mean.” You clear your throat, looking down at the giant jersey hanging off your frame while a blush forms on your face. “Objectively speaking, he’s handsome, yes.”

“ _ **Miss LA**!”_ You cringe at the sound of the voice, looking over your shoulder to see your expat friend jog over with a doe-eyed look in his face that probably means he’s had one too many beers. "Hey! I was looking for you."

But just as he comes to a stop, so does Ushijima, the both of them looking at one another—“oh hey, I just watched you play—you were _sick! Can I get your autograph?_ ” He says, obviously not getting the hint. And then he starts scrambling in his pockets. “Hey, miss LA—you wouldn’t happen to have a pen and paper do ya?”

You resist the urge to sigh, reaching into your bag and ripping out a piece of paper from your notepad while sending Tendo -- who happens to be suppressing a laugh -- a glare so thick it could probably cut glass.

The expat snatches it from your hands and gives it to Ushijima, who seems indifferent to the whole debacle as he signs his name and gives it back—

“Awesome.” Your expat friend folds it and shoves it into his pocket, turning to you. “So, miss LA—how’s about that date?”

Ushijima blinks, “Date?”

Ah, fuck.

Tendo snorts, “Seems like you’re in a bit of a pickle.”

“It’s not—we’re not—” You look down at the jersey you’re wearing, then back at Ushijima, who looks somewhat taken aback—or as taken aback as he can get. “It was because your jersey was sold out.”

The expat _friend_ of yours is bouncing on the balls of his feet, “Yep! Bought the last one—lucky me, right?”

But Ushijima's face melts from something of indifference to _confusion_. "My jersey was sold out?"

And then you hang your head low because _how do you begin to even explain all this?_

“He wouldn’t sell it to her no matter how much she begged so he forced her on a date,” says Tendo, grinning wide.

“—well, I didn’t _force_ her. She agreed.”

Tendo doesn’t budge, that smile sitting pretty on his face, “Meh. Either way, you pressured her—and that’s a pretty shitty thing to do, right?"

You try not to actually facepalm -- you could do without the drama -- and you’re not even really sure why he’s defending you. Having just met him, you would’ve expected this to become another funny story in his repertoire to forget about.

But Ushijima just looks at you, looks back at Tendo, and then at the expat next to you.

Then he peels off his jersey, pulling it over his head until he’s standing half-naked before you. Completely chiseled. Cut like a fucking statue.

“It’s sweaty. Sorry.” He puts it in your hands, taking care to make sure you’re holding it before turning around and leaving.

You gawk, the faintest blush blooming on your face as you stare down at his jersey—his jersey that feels lighter than the memorabilia version you’re wearing right now.

You peel it off, shove it into the hands of your expat _friend_. “Don’t need this anymore, New York,” you tell him, beaming.

And then you start chasing after Ushijima, who seems none-the-wiser.

The expat steps forward, “Hey! What about our date—”

“She’s busy.” Tendo blocks his path with a smile. “Fangirls these days, am I right?”

*

The bustle of the izakaya is _crazy_.

Everyone on the team is drinking— _everyone including Kageyama_ —because the regular season has come to a close, those on the national team are preparing for the Olympics, and it’s time to finally relax and loosen up on the discipline.

Everyone is talking, in full cheer, _including Yamasaki-san_ , whose shirt is untucked and tie is tossed over his shoulder. He’s rambling about an ex-girlfriend from college, and Hoshiumi is on the receiving end of the diatribe, looking very much bored.

You’re at a smaller table with Ushijima and Tendo, the latter ordering a tower of beer to the surprise of no one. And for the record, you join along, pouring yourself a pitcher while chewing on a plate of fried chicken.

For the most part, Tendo catches up with Ushijima and tells you stories about his high school glory days. “Girls used to swoon over me, y’know.” And though you find that hard to believe, you do anyway because he’s oddly endearing in his own right and you _want_ to believe him. “Be right back,” he says, eyes latching onto Kageyama. “Gonna go pick on our lil' rival for old time's sake.”

And he leaves, which means you and Ushijima are alone now.

Right.

Alone.

“Hey, just to clarify.” You feel a little silly about this—but something about the drunken haze makes you a little braver tonight. “That guy before—he…he doesn’t mean anything.”

Ushijima pauses, taking a sip of beer before meeting your gaze, “I thought he was your boyfriend.”

“No— _definitely not_.” You laugh, taking another sip of beer before setting your glass down and looking off at some inconspicuous corner he’s apparently not privy to. “He’s just a guy I met at a bar."

Tendo saunters back, looks at you, then at him.

 _Then at you_.

Then at him.

“Y’know, jealousy’s not a good look for you, Wakatoshi-kun,” he says dreamily -- and the comment alone is enough to make Ushijima pick up his pitcher of beer and take one long gulp until it's empty.

“Another,” he says, and Tendo takes his cup, filling it up to the brim.

*

He’s drunk.

You probably couldn’t tell if you didn’t know him—but you _know_ him. After your weekend together in Murata, you _really, really_ know him. Leave it to Tendo to dump him on your shoulder as you guide him towards the lobby of your hotel by the sleeve like a little kid.

He knocks into your shoulder as he comes into the elevator and you have to catch him from stumbling into the wall as the door closes.

“Jeez—you’re a total lightweight,” you say, somehow finding him both endearing and ridiculously cute at the same time. “How much did you have to drink?”

“Don’t remember,” he says to the wall. “Five.”

When you get to your floor, you take his arm, guiding him the way you would probably guide a geriatric, and walk him down the hall until you get to your room at the end.

“Don’t worry, I’m gonna tuck you right into bed—and you’re gonna sleep until morning comes, alright?” You open the door, flip on the lights, and he stumbles in behind you. "Just a little further."

You kick off your heels, sit him on your bed, and bend down, helping him untie the laces of his sneakers.

He hiccups.

And pauses.

“Ever since we came back from Murata, you’ve been acting different.”

Which makes you pause.

“I have?” You say, pulling off his shoes—one a time and setting them by the door.

He looks deep in consideration, cheeks flushed pink. “Yes.”

“I don't think so."

"I do." He doesn’t quite meet your gaze, staring at his lap instead. “You put up a wall.”

Truthfully, you thought you could avoid this conversation.

 _You thought he meant it when he said you didn’t have to talk about it_.

“I…like you.” He meets your gaze. “But it seems like you don’t want me to.”

 _Of course you want him to_.

Of course you _want_ _him_.

But how can you ever admit this aloud? Never mind your feelings—the two of you live in two different worlds. It wouldn’t ever work in the long haul anyway, so why take the risk now?

It hurts.

 _You realize it hurts more than you think_.

But maybe you owe it to him to be honest for one night.

“I like you too,” you say, softly, turning towards the bed. “But you know I--"

It’s silent.

You realize he's fallen asleep.

*

The bath is getting cold, but you have a lot more to consider as you lean against your clenched fist, staring at the marble wall, wondering when it'll give you the answers you're searching for.

Until your phone starts buzzing.

 **jason** : you back in LA yet?  
 **jason** : my roommate’s visiting his parents  
 **jason** : you should come over

You glance at the door of your bathroom before looking back at your screen and whipping up a response.

 **you** : i’m in japan for another week

 **jason** : lol kk  
 **jason** : text me when you wanna pick up where we left off

Just as you’re about to turn off your phone, you get another ping.

 **dad** : Hey! Is this thing on?  
 **dad** : Kidding.  
 **dad** : Grandma wanted me to send you this  
 **dad** : Hope it’s not too blurry!  
 **dad** : [IMG]

It’s a picture of you and Ushijima in your yukatas.

You’re looking at him with all the adoration in the world, just showing the beginning curve of a smile. And he—he’s looking right back at you. There’s something of relief there, but you recognize that look because he’s seeing you like you’re an absolute reprieve from an otherwise painful world filled with unpredictability and chaos.

He’s looking at you—of course—like you’re the only thing that matters.

You stare at it a moment longer before setting your phone aside.

Then you hold your breath and sink beneath the surface of the water.

_One, two, three…_

*

He’s still asleep by the time you get out of the bath.

You crawl onto the sheets, nudging him gently in the shoulder. "Ushijima," you whisper softly, but there’s no response.

So you curl up on his shoulder, not quite caring that your hair is wet and seeping through his shirt.

“I’m here for another five days," you say, quietly. With the last bit of courage you can muster, you take a breath. "We can try it out, if you want."

You’re pretty sure he’s asleep.

"Be boyfriend and girlfriend, I mean. Or date. Or whatever." You're probably getting too ahead of yourself. He likes you, but he's never made it clear what he wants to do with you. "Um...Ushijima--"

“Will you call me by first name?”

Your face flushes red almost instantly. It’s such an inane request, but you can tell he’s been mulling it over—it’s probably taken him all the strength in the world to get it out. But when you look up, his eyes are still closed.

“Of course,” you tell him, smiling. “Wakatoshi-kun.”

You close your eyes too and miss the fact that he’s blushing.


	8. borrowed time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for MidyCute <3
> 
> TW: drowning, mentions of suicide

Ushijima is stoic as ever, taking in the sight of you with a blush creeping on his face that looks almost _painful_.

You crawl to him, knees sinking into the mattress cushioning, and come to a full stop at the headboard where he’s sitting in his boxer briefs. It doesn’t take you long to straddle him, as his hands fall to the dip of your waist as you take stock of all the little details of his bedroom: a nightstand in one corner, a floor lamp in another, and a writing desk that looks barely used.

In fact, most of his apartment looks barely lived-in. He has the most basic necessities, but there’s absolutely no character to it—aside from the jerseys and track suits lying flat on his chair. They say an apartment is supposed to tell a story, but the only story you see is he lives simply, like a monk from the northern temples.

 _‘Or like a farmer from Murata_ ,’ you muse, leaning in to press a chaste little kiss to his lips.

He’s hesitant, lips parting as he kisses you back—as his tongue swirls in your mouth. And then whatever hesitation he has immediately vanishes as he winds his fingers through your hair, tugging gently at the roots to give himself access to your neck and to the dip between your breasts.

And then he stops.

There’s no sign things have even started going remotely wrong, but he _stops_.

“I can’t.”

He pulls back, looking very much disappointed with himself. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmurs and you can’t help but laugh at how deflated he looks.

“I’m not fragile, y’know.” And when he doesn’t answer immediately, you touch his face—darkening the blush that’s already on his skin. “You can be a little rough with me, if you want. I can handle it.”

Apparently that’s too much because he immediately puts his hands on your bare shoulders—palms warm and all-encompassing—before pulling the straps of your tank-top back on with a soft _snap_. His touch is oddly delicate, and he handles with you such care -- like he’s holding onto some precious jewel that’s destined to stay the course -- and if he isn’t careful, you’ll shatter into pieces.

“We don’t have protection. It wouldn’t be right,” he says, and you quirk a brow.

“I use an IUD.”

He pauses, thinking.

Still, he doesn’t budge. So you smile, crawling off his lap to pull on your shirt, buttoning it up from the top down before rolling up your sleeves and sparing him a smile.

“Some other time, then. Wanna grab dinner?” You ask, tying up your hair. “There’s this udon place Akari recommended that’s apparently been around since the Meiji Restoration.”

“Yes,” he says, studying you quietly before standing up, “But Rin.”

You pull on your pants next, fussing with the belt before meeting his gaze again, “Hm?”

“Should I be worried?”

“About?”

Again, he pauses, “Your IUD.”

“Why would that be something you need to worry about?”

“It sounds grave.”

It’s your turn to pause this time, “…what do you think an IUD is, Wakatoshi-kun?”

**

You start getting settled into a routine. It’s hard to notice, of course, and it isn’t until you start calling it a routine that you even realize it _is one_.

With the regular split coming to a close and the Olympic training camp on the horizon, he has time to spare, albeit time spent conditioning. So you join him on his morning run, make breakfast with him, (take your showers separately), and write as much as you can from noon on while he goes to the gym. The more you spend time with him, the more you realize how much comfort you find just being in his presence.

Even in the smallest, most unobtrusive moments. Even when it’s just you two eating dinner together in the air-conditioned apartment.

Even when you’re lounging on the couch together -- you’re lying flat on your back, legs draped over his lap while he’s sitting, watching whatever trashy variety show is droning on in the background -- while you wait on a conference call with the two photo editors who are working on styling your story.

“I don’t want to be in the shot,” you say, studying Ushijima’s side profile as he watches the TV.

With his features—sharp and angled (truly, he would’ve made an excellent idol in another life)— you already have an idea of what you want the cover to look like. “Maybe I’ll just do your job for you, Eric. I think I have a DSLR lying around in my apartment somewhere.”

The laugh that escapes you is short, which makes Ushijima look your way, as he rubs your knee. It’s a comfortingly domestic sight. You’re at ease here, and though he hasn’t said anything about your staying over his apartment, you feel…at home.

“I knew you were gonna bring up the TV thing,” you say with a curl of a smile. “For the record, I didn’t wanna do it. But Goro said I have to promote the story one way or another, so—hey, who knows? Maybe at the end of this I’ll give Scottie a run for his money.”

You laugh again, “I’m _kidding_. Ground-reporting is frickin' hard. Pretty sure you have to have a university degree to do it right—I have a lot of respect—” You look amused, turning your cheek to glance at the TV screen before turning your gaze to the ceiling. “If Goro wants to send me to do camerawork for the Olympics, I’m all for it. As long as it means a free ticket to the opening ceremony.”

At the sound of this, Ushijima perks up.

“Alright, talk later Eric. Tell your wife I said hi.”

He drapes his palm over your thigh, “You’re coming back?”

“I am—for follow-up. Hey, maybe I’ll get the chance to interview you after a match! Not that I’ve ever done live TV before, but.” You feel your phone buzz again and see one very familiar name on the screen. “Sorry, give me one sec.”

It’s Jason.

You press the receiver against your cheek, “Hello?”

“Drop off the face of the earth?” comes the drawl on the other side. “What gives?”

His voice is blaring—loud enough to make you jerk your face away from the receiver. Ushijima glances at you, pausing before looking away. “You caught me at a bad time,” you say, which earns you a very dramatic sigh from the other line. “I’m still in Japan right now.”

“What? I could’ve sworn you said you were in Korea visiting family."

“OK, that’s kind of racist."

“I’m _joking,_ Rin—

Ushijima frowns, hands coming to an abrupt stop as they sit on your knees.

“—anyway, you saw my text right? You should—”

Slowly, his fingers start trailing down your thighs.

“—give me a call when you return to the motherland. Hey, maybe I’ll even do you a favor and pick you up from LAX."

You pause, lips curling into a needy smile, "You would do that?"

"Yeah. You're welcome, by the way. LAX is the fucking worst. In exchange--"

“Forget it. I think I’m just gonna take a Lyft and call it a night.”

Ushjima’s fingers wander to the hem of your skirt, hesitating before reaching beneath the fabric where your underwear sits.

“—you don’t wanna pick up where we left off?”

Ah, yes. Pick up where you left off—where you were the glorified booty call who didn’t know any better. “Like I said,” you start, as you feel Ushijima’s fingers push aside the fabric, thumb pressed against your center. “I’m not really in the right place to talk about that right now.”

“But _what does that even mean_.” Jason’s whining—he sounds drunk. “I thought—"

And then Ushijima stops.

Slowly, his fingers make their way to the waistband of your underwear, and you arch your back, helping him tug them down until they’re rolled up at your feet. He disposes of them on the floor without sparing a second glance.

“—you were in a better place after what happened, right Rin?"

He throws your legs off his lap and crawls onto his stomach, kissing the soft skin of your inner thigh before edging closer between your legs. The bottom half of you is completely naked, sans your miniskirt, and you can feel his breath, hot and heavy on the peak between your folds.

“Hello? Are you still there?”

“Y—yeah,” you take a breath, sinking deeper into the couch as Ushijima spreads your legs. “Sorry, you caught me at a bad time.”

His tongue drags between your legs—experimental and slow—and it takes every bit of strength you can muster not to moan into the receiver of the phone.

“Yeah, yeah. You already said that,” says Jason, sighing. “Where are you, anyway?”

But Ushijima is cautious, as if trying to take stock of all your little ministrations like if he’s not careful enough you might shatter under his touch again.

You want to moan, but all you can do is hold your breath into the receiver as he lowers his mouth around the sensitive nub at the peak of your folds, sucking gently.

“—the gym,” you muster out at last, breath heavy. “Treadmill.” All you can offer are one-word answers as you tug on Ushijima’s hair, helping him settle into a rhythm. “Running.”

“I thought you hated the gym. Unless all those attempts to get me to swim at the beach were just a rouse to get closer to me."

You’re overly sensitive and you know you’re not going to last, but Ushijima seems less aware of that fact as he slips a finger inside you—tongue still lapping at your center in gentle swirls that has you arching your back—and suddenly your toes are curling and you’re digging your nails into his scalp. “Oh god—"

“Come on, it was _kind of_ funny,” comes the voice on your receiver.

The more he talks, the more urgent Ushijima becomes, holding onto your hips—digging his fingers into your skin—and burrowing his tongue against your peak while he works you with his finger. You’re vaguely aware of the wet spot that’s beginning to form underneath you on the couch, and yet—

“Guess you’re not even gonna answer me now, huh.” Another sigh comes from the receiver. “Well, fine. I’ll let you go. Just know that I’m thinking about y—”

“—bye Jay,” you mutter, hanging up and tossing your phone onto the coffee table before reaching out and running your fingers through Ushijima’s hair.

You’re completely melting, so close to the edge, and all it takes is three more seconds of foreplay for you to cum—the numbing white-hot adrenaline rush making you quiver as he continues working you through your orgasm until you’re pushing his face away, completely overspent in the aftermath.

"Shit."

For a while, both of you are quiet, as he sits himself up to wipe away whatever excess is on his mouth.

Your mind is still muddled in the post-orgasm rush as you strain to get up, stumbling over his lap to straddle him. You can feel him hard underneath his shorts, and as you reach for the hem, your phone starts buzzing again. “Later,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his lips where you taste yourself. He brushes your hair away from your face, eyes full of desire and longing.

But your phone buzzes again and he spares a glance over your shoulder that sticks. “It’s your dad,” he says, and you shrug it off, pressing a kiss to his cheek, to his neck, to his mouth.

“It’s fine,” you murmur. “I’ll call back later—”

The phone buzzes again and you groan, leaning over to pick it up, “Hello?”

“Grandpa fell down the stairs.”

All at once, the smile on your face melts into something of concern, “ _What?_ ”

Dad heaves a sigh, “He’s doing alright—but he cracked his hip. The doctors say it’s risky to operate.”

You crawl off Ushijima’s lap, running your fingers through your hair. “So—what’re they gonna do?”

“Bedrest and painkillers."

“So nothing,” you murmur. _‘Freakin’ country bumpkin doctors.’_ “I’ll come over tonight.” And before dad gets a chance to respond, you hang up and look at Ushijima, who’s staring at you with all the concern in the world. “My grandpa fell. I have to go back to Murata tonight.”

He stands up, heading to his dresser, “I’ll go with you.” He says it with such certainty, with such little hesitation, that it surprises even you.

You stand up right after him, clutching your phone to your chest, “Are you sure? You don’t have practice or something?"

“The Olympic training camp doesn’t start for another two weeks,” he says, scrolling through his phone. “There are two more bullet trains for Miyagi before it stops running. We should leave soon.”

*

“You’re making a fuss about nothing!”

You sigh, taking a seat on the edge of grandpa’s hospital bed, “You cracked your hip—that’s not _nothing_.” But never mind that—the fact that he had fallen is already indicative of something worse.

Dad sighs, “She’s right. No use in being casual about it.”

You fiddle with the blanket, glancing up at dad, “Why won’t the doctors operate again?”

“They said there’s too much risk putting him under anesthesia. At his age, there’s more risk putting him to sleep than the actual operation itself.”

Grandpa frowns, “Stop talking about me like I’m not here.”

"Be nice," says grandma.

“Let’s give them some time,” says dad, ushering you towards the door. “There’s something I want to talk to you about anyway.”

You pause, looking at grandma, who’s remained steadfast at grandpa’s bedside with a soft smile. “Go ahead, dear,” she says, and you do, following dad out into the corridor.

Before you shut the door, you hear grandpa whisper, “I’m scared” as grandma takes his hand, tucks it into her palm, and smiles. “Don’t be,” she says. “I’m here.”

**

When you return to the hallway, you find that dad’s face is pained as he offers you a weak smile that looks more and more feigned the more you study it.

"Akari stopped by earlier," he says. "Dropped off mangos for grandpa."

"Oh." It brings a flutter to your stomach--knowing that she still cares enough to do that. "I'll have to thank her later."

He pauses, leaning against the wall with his back as he lowers his gaze to the white-tiled floors.

“What would it take for you to stay?” He asks, and the suddenness of the question is enough to catch you off guard.

You don’t have a good answer for him. Truthfully, you _want_ to stay. Just being there with him, grandpa, and grandma is enough to make you want to weep for joy. They say family is what you make of it, but you were lucky.

“I don’t know,” you tell him, lowering your gaze. "I have a career in LA. If I came back, I wouldn't have...anything here."

He looks down, as if ascertaining this reality to be true, and offers you a smile, albeit one that’s tired.

“You should go home and rest for the night,” he says. “I’m sure Wakatoshi is getting worried waiting for you.”

**

The house has never felt so empty.

When you return, you find him sitting on the edge of the veranda, barefoot, staring up at the abandoned house on the hill and the lake sitting underneath in the valley of shadows.

“How is he?” He asks, as you take a seat next to him. “Was he awake?”

“Mmhmm.” You lean against his shoulder, feeling the day-load of exhaustion hit you like a damned freight train as you finally unwind and relax. “Snippy as usual.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

He pauses. Waits for you to say something more. And when you don’t he decides to go on.

“Are you OK?”

You look up at the house on the hill—the looming shadows of its spires and broken walls.

_‘We’re running on borrowed time.’_

By this hour tomorrow, you’re going to be on a plane back to Los Angeles. You’ll return to your old life with your old friends and file the story you have tucked away into your laptop. You’ll follow up here and there, take stock of whatever new developments are happening, and then you’ll never see him again.

You pull away, staring out at the reeds in front of your house, “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“What is it?”

You hesitate, hugging your knees into your chest and curling into yourself. It’s an odd realization—one that you’ve never thought about before—but there’s no denying it at this point. He’s already deeply embedded into your life, whether you want to admit it aloud or not.

“I lied,” you say, staring at your knees. “I didn’t run away because my dad wanted to send me to LA.”

It’s quiet.

You take a breath.

“When I was little, dad rented out a suite in Sendai for his and mom’s wedding anniversary,” you say, slowly. “I wanted to tag along, even though mom was adamant that I stayed home with grandpa and grandma. But after enough begging, dad eventually relented and convinced her to take me along…I'd never been to Sendai, so the entire situation was novel to me.”

The summer breeze sifts through the air, making you shiver.

“Dad had to settle the bill in the lobby and I was watching TV in the room while mom was taking a bath,” you go on, feeling a wedge in your throat that refuses to budge. “There was something scary happening on TV, so I went to go find her in the bath—and she was…sleeping. Underwater."

Another pause.

"I thought she was playing around because she could hold her breath for almost five minutes, so I went back to the living room and continued watching TV…I started counting down the seconds. 300 total. But when I came back…”

That was it.

She never woke up.

“I later learned she took a handful of sleeping pills, passed out in the tub, and drowned.”

And it wasn’t until dad returned that you realized something was wrong. You remember how frantic he’d been—how he was holding onto you while dialing the police. You remember the strained smile on his face that spelled trouble. But most of all, you remember mom’s lifeless body, arms and legs akimbo, as she was dragged from the water and brought to the bed naked.

And blue.

“How could I show my face back home after what I did?” You say, voice half a whisper as your eyes go hot with tears. “If I called the cops—if I called _anyone_ just a little sooner, she probably would still be alive.”

He frowns, “You were a child.”

“I know, but—"

“It’s not your fault,” says Ushijima, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. And when he sees that your gaze is fixed somewhere else—somewhere far, _far_ away he’ll never reach—he reaches out and tips your chin so you’re forced to look him dead in the eye.

“It’s not your fault,” he says again, but the more you listen, the more the words begin to echo inside you like they’re true.

The next moments go by in a blur.

You’re climbing onto his lap, taking off your clothes layer by layer, until you're completely naked. His pants come off, and suddenly he's inside you--and you're tethered.

He fucks you gently, turning you on your back and kissing away whatever hesitation you have. "You're beautiful," he murmurs, and you think--you think about how fucked up this is, but also how badly you fucking _need_ this.

And when you cum, it's slow--the pleasure coming from your core and spreading through your arms and legs until you're curling your toes, crying out his name.

It isn't until he pulls out that you realize you're crying.

He kisses away each tear--softly, with care--and runs his fingers through your hair, holding you to his chest. "I love you," he says. "More than you know."

But all you can do is sob because the release is too profound and too cathartic to bear.

"I love you," he whispers into your ear. " _I love you_."

**

For a while, he just looks at you with all adoration and love in the world.

It’s an inevitability neither of you have acknowledged, an inevitability you’ve all but put off until the last second. You’re two parts of a whole running on borrowed time—but time’s up: and here you are now, wasted lovers of a time past.

“This can’t go on anymore,” you say. “I think...we have to break up.”

Because you’re going away—because you’re a tourist in a town you no longer belong to.

Because you’re the one who always fucks it up.

Still, as you curl into his arms, sticky with sweat, you think it’s the safest place in the world. The only place you want to be. _The only place that matters_.

“I don’t want to,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

And this is where it happens.

This is the end.

And yet.

You close your eyes, “So let’s not.”

**

_"What's your name?"_

_"My dad said not to talk to strangers."_

_"OK. Then can I call you Toto?"_

_"I don't care what you call me. I'm not supposed to talk to you. Go away."_

_"It's dangerous here at night. My mom's in the office down the block and she has a cell phone. You can call your dad from there."_

_"..."_

_"Are you listening?"_

_"Yes."_

_"OK, do you think you can get up?"_

_"Yes, but."_

_"But what?"_

_"Can I call you bambi?"_

**

The airport is the loneliest place in the world.

All these passing faces of strangers you’ll see once and never again. The grimy, underbelly of constant construction that never ceases. The movies tend to hype it up, but as you set foot in LAX, all you can think about is the life you left behind in Japan—and the red string of fate that’s on its last legs—

Still tethered to your pinky.

 **Ushijima Wakatoshi** : Did you arrive safely?

There’s something to be said about the warmth of LA, as you settle into your Lyft and lean your head against the glass.

 **You** : I did :)  
**You** : On my way home right now

 **Ushijima Wakatoshi** : Good.  
**Ushijima Wakatoshi** : Get some rest.

“Visiting from out of town?” asks your driver.

All those city lights in the distance—and the endless number of strip malls, Priuses, and McMansions. It’s the prettiest at night because you don’t see any of the dirt, congestion, or traffic in the light. Unlike Murata, the city is alive at all hours— _most hours_.

You smile, weakly, “Yeah.”

You still feel like a tourist here.

“Where ya from?”

“Murata.”

“Cool. I’m from Madison. Came here three months ago to be a screenwriter,” he says. “You work in the industry?”

As the Lyft pulls up to your house, you hear the _blare_ of trap music thumping through the ground.

There are at least _a dozen_ people alone partying on the front porch of your duplex and you recognize literally none of them. “Fuck,” you mutter, stepping out the car, grabbing your suitcase from the back before approaching your front door and finding _Sam_ dancing on the coffee table with her _shoes on_.

“You made it!” She shrieks, catching your gaze. "Welcome home!"

“Sam—what the _fuuuuuuu_ —” You find someone hoisting up your lamp on top of your grandfather clock. “Hey! Get down—”

“ _ **To be fair, I tried to stop her**_.”

Jason literally apparates before you with a bottle of whiskey in his hands. You take a look at him, take a look at the bottle, and purse your lips, trying not to unload a _boat_ of curses. “We missed ya! So glad you’re back,” he beams, reaching his arms out for a hug—

“Take this,” you say, shoving your suitcase into his arms. "Gimme that."

You grab the bottle of whiskey and make your way to the living room, taking off your coat and dumping it to the floor before joining Sam on the coffee table to dance the night away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter! and then i may or may not write an epilogue...


	9. bambi and toto

“Rin, what the fuck.”

Whatever goodwill you had manifested over the course of your weekend is _gone_ as you watch Goro get up from his chair to shut the door of his office, only to settle at the edge of his desk. He rubs his chin, looks at you, and _sighs_.

“I thought you would be happy I said something,” you reply, slowly, feeling every inch of yourself wilt. This is, well, apparently not at all the way you thought the conversation would go today. “Better that I disclose this now than never, right?”

“Honestly I wish you hadn’t said anything at all. Now _I_ can’t even plead plausible deniability because _I’m_ wrapped up in this shit,” he says, looking very much disappointed in you, which is somehow worse than him straight up looking angry. “Didn’t you learn your lesson the last time? _You got blackballed from a whole team_. That’s not a good look."

“This is different,” you murmur, but you get the feeling he doesn’t really care.

" _This_ could've been your redemption."

"I'm not looking for redemption," you hiss. "I didn't do anything wrong."

It’s still a sore subject and you’re quantitatively _over it_ , so the last thing you want to do is rehash something that hurt you so much. He seems to realize that because his gaze softens almost immediately as he takes a breath only to sigh again, "Sorry. That was out of line." He musses up his hair, looking very much stressed about the can of worms he's just uncovered. "I just want the best for you. You know that."

"I do."

Goro had been the one who stuck his neck out for you to get your credentials back after you got blackballed. Who knew that dating an athlete would be so _fucking_ annoying? Oh wait, you did. Because you actually _dated_ one.

He studies you a moment longer before turning tail to flop down on his chair, one that squeaks under his weight. “You really love him, huh.” He looks resigned, as if he's already accepted whatever fate you've bequeathed him.

You nod, slowly, “And if it means I don’t get a spot on the cover, that’s fine with me.”

“Jesus.”

He rubs his chin again, somehow looking even more disappointed than he was earlier. “Well, I guess if you’re at least mentally prepared for that.” And you are. You _really_ are. “I’m gonna have to run this by the higher-ups. I’ll email you when I get an update.”

You stand up and brush away the wrinkles in your skirt before meeting his gaze, “Thanks, Goro.”

**

The air that billows out of your AC vents is wet and _hot_ as you pull out of your spot.

Irvine’s about an hour drive down from where you are, which means you have time to kill on your way. So you pull out your phone, plug in the adapter, and start playing some random podcast you dredge up from your bookmarks.

You’re vaguely aware this is the first time you’re going to meet Ushijima's dad (under unusual circumstances, no less), but you figure he already met your parents— _also your grandparents_ —so it feels almost organic that his dad would be the last person you’d meet on this very, very strange journey.

The thought never leaves your mind, even as you stop at a slump in traffic as the AC blasts on.

The drone of the NY Times' Daily News podcast rolls on--but you're not really paying attention, staring at the car next to yours where there's a cute couple holding hands in the front seat. They're talking about something, _laughing_ , and when you look at them, you feel a swell in your chest because it's a reminder that you're a sucker for love.

And you always have been.

So desperate to cling to something--so desperate to feel whole. It's a pitiful revelation, one that you've never quite denied. Yet all you feel is disappointment. Because in America, California especially, your career comes before pleasure. If you can even call it that. Love should always take a backseat because love is tender, love is kind, and love is fleeting.

You'd seen it firsthand with your parents. Watched their marriage whittle away until there was nothing left except resentment. Watched--

 _“Question No. 27 **—Complete this sentence: I wish I had someone whom I could share…**_ ”

Your audio cuts.

You bang on your stereo, but the podcast keeps rolling.

 _"This is thirty-six questions that lead to love_..."

"What the fuck," you mutter, turning down the volume, only for the voice to roll on.

“ _The idea is that mutual vulnerability fosters closeness_ … _allowing oneself to be vulnerable with another person can be exceedingly difficult—”_

You turn off the stereo and lean your forehead against the steering wheel.

"OK, I get it universe. I know what you're trying to do," you mumble to no one in particular as the drone of traffic moves on. "You've made your point."

And then you smile, leaning back against your seat.

"I'll stop feeling sorry for myself now."

**

Ushijima’s father is _handsome_.

He smiles quite a bit when he talks, completely reverent to his son in a way that seems almost prototypical of the proud dad. And he answers most of your questions without pause. Unlike Ushijima, he tends to go with his gut. There’s less hesitation, more candidness, and even if he has to take a moment to think things over, he never leaves you hanging. It’s a far cry from what his son’s like, and as you make your way through your list of questions, you start getting a sense of _longing_.

You’re about to ask him a little more about his relationship with his wife when he interjects. “My son’s told me about you,” he says, and it makes you perk up just a bit.

“I hope only good things,” you laugh, and he gives you a knowing look with a twinkle in his eye like he already knows whatever secret you’re trying to hide.

Which he probably does.

He grins, “He said you’re a good writer.”

Which one can probably say of any journalist with half a brain, but you decide to keep the snarkiness saved for a rainy day or for Sam. “I’m surprised he’s read any of my stuff,” you admit, thinking about the guy you dated once upon a time who believed his work was what your work revolved around. "He never mentioned it to me."

“He said he found your short stories online.”

Oh.

 _Shit_.

 _Those_ stories.

“Ah, he did?” You try not to look so obviously concerned about it. “That’s—embarrassing.”

"Why would it be embarrassing?"

"Because...it's fiction," you laugh, scratching your cheek. "And it's old stuff. I haven't taken a look at it in years, probably for good reason too."

Again, his smile is gracious. “It’s good. My son liked it, though he can’t really explain why.” And then he leans over his desk to study your face, making you feel very self-conscious. “You should keep writing them.”

“Oh, I don’t really have the time—"

There’s a knock on the door.

“Come in,” he says, leaning back into his seat.

The door opens—

“Oh.”

It’s Ushijima. His face turns red as soon as he looks at you, “Rin.”

For whatever reason, you stand up from your seat, “Wakatoshi-kun.”

And then he blinks, as if remembering why he’s there to begin with. “Dad. I wanted to introduce you to my friend,” he says, opening the door to reveal another very _tall_ man with a head-full of spiky hair like a porcupine. “This is Iwaizumi, a friend of mine from high school.” And then he motions to you. “This is my girlfriend, Rin.” But one has to wonder if he's introducing you to his dad, or if he's introducing you to his friend.

But, wait.

 _Girlfriend_.

Utsui smiles, "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too...sir."

You look utterly miffed, but that doesn’t compare to the look on Iwaizumi’s face—because he’s clearly stunned. Staring at Ushijima like he’s at his wit’s end before it melts into something smarmy and coy like he's figured out the key to some all-powerful puzzle in the dunes of Egypt.

You shake off whatever hesitation you have and bow. “It’s nice to meet you,” you tell him, and he returns your bow, oddly polite as he speaks to you in Japanese.

“Nice to meet ya too,” he says, grinning. “Man, wait ‘til Oikawa gets a load of this.”

“Who’s Oikawa?”

Ushijima frowns, “No one.”

“Well? Seems like you two have a lot of catching up to do,” says Utsui, coming around the desk to give his son a pat on the shoulder.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out he’s trying to usher you both out as soon as possible. “Run along now.”

**

It's been a long time since you've enjoyed yourself on a college campus, a relic of your past that you haven't visited since you fell asleep at your graduation.

You stop by the benches on the quad, take a seat, and start rattling off small-talk, feeling _awkward_ because you haven’t ever seen Ushijima outside Japan—and he looks…every bit the same. Stern, stiff, and wary. Perpetually sizing you up. And it’s a strangely comforting sight, one that you've yearned to see.

You think, of course, he looks like home.

“How was your flight?” You ask.

He crosses his arms over his chest. “Fine.”

“Did you find your way through LAX alright?”

“Yes.”

“Are you excited about your photoshoot tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. Should I be?”

Had you not known him any better, you probably would’ve taken it as an insult. You pout, “A little enthusiasm would be nice,” you tell him. “The photo guys say you have the right face to be a catalogue model."

It rolls off his shoulder pretty easily as he considers it, "I see..."

You stand up, stretching out your arms like a cat under the hazy afternoon sun. “By the way, I told Goro,” you say, turning away towards the lawn. “He said…he might demote my story from the cover, but—that’s OK with me.”

" _What_?"

“I—said that’s OK with me—”

“He demoted your story?”

You lower your arms, turning around to see him leaning over his thighs, thinking. “It’s fine,” you tell him, reaching out to squeeze his cheeks. He doesn’t fight you—and it’s quite the sight to see him let you fuss with him however you want—he has the patience of a damned monk. “It was never guaranteed anyway. But... I told him about us and I think it was the only common ground we could find."

He looks concerned, but his cheeks are being stretched like mochi so it's a pretty hilarious sight to witness. "And you're OK with that?"

"Yeah!" You smile at him, thinking about Utsui and what he said in his office. "Besides, I have a lot more stories to tell anyway."

**

Shortly after, you drive him to your apartment.

It's empty, which means he immediately dives into kissing you. Whatever semblance of politeness is left at the doorway because he's not only kissing you, but ripping off your clothes, and carrying you half-naked into the door of your room, where you fuck like you're fucking for the very last time.

The AC is droning on, which drowns out whatever moans you're letting out, and there's nothing poetic or pretty about it: everything is completely urgent. _Everything is completely hot_. You cum too fast, so he makes you cum again--and by the time he's done with you, you're completely overspent, drenched in cold sweat, and past the afterglow of your orgasm.

He pulls you into his arms before you get the chance to get up from bed. His arms--toned and sticky with sweat as it crushes you against his chest.

"I missed you," he breathes.

You let yourself have this, burrowing against his pecs, "Me too."

"Rin."

"Mm?"

He tips your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"You're pretty."

You blush. You _actually_ blush. Like an idiot. But you're also smiling. Because who the hell says stuff like that out loud? Especially after sex? Ushijima Wakatoshi does. Because of course he does.

You don't tell him how happy he makes you.

**

"Wow, you're cute."

" _Sam_."

Sitting on the coffee table like some idle detective-in-training waiting for her next case, she studies him. "Rin wasn't joking! She said-- _ **oof**_ _."_

You physically elbow her off the table while you take a seat next to him on the couch. "Sam's studying to become a lawyer," you explain, hoping to clear the air of whatever dumb thoughts she'd planted only moments ago. "Don't let the look on her face fool you--she's actually really smart when she tries."

Ushijima nods, "What kind of lawyer do you want to be?"

"Divorce lawyer, definitely."

"Sam."

"Jeez--I'm just kidding, alright? Probably something in IP law. But that's boring," she says, sitting back up. "I want to know everything. From the beginning. How did it feel to meet again. Did Rin tell you about how embarrassed she was when she realized--"

"Sam!" You stand up, feeling somewhat mortified at how much information she was unloading. "I think that's good for today. I'll take you back to your hotel," you say, smiling at Ushijima.

Sam blinks, "You're not staying over?"

"He has a photoshoot in the morning," you say, sounding very much like a manager. Your phone starts buzzing and you take a look at the caller ID. "Ah, speaking of which. That's my photo editor. Please keep Wakatoshi company while I...take this."

You glare at Sam, hoping to send her a message in your mind like _if you say anything compromising I'm gonna kill you_ , and apparently she gets it because she salutes you with two fingers before turning to Ushijima, who's watching the entire procession with a blank look on his face.

It isn't until the door clicks that Sam beams, "OK, now spill the beans."

**

Talking to Ushijima is a lesson in sobriety and Sam learns this the hard way as he offers her answers that are curt and clinical and sorely lacking in detail. It isn't until he mentions the cover story and Goro's decision that her ears perk up.

"I heard about that," she says, looking very downcast. "It's such a shame."

He looks solemn, "It is."

"After everything that happened, it probably would've helped repair her reputation too."

And then he stops. The wheels are turning in his head -- slowly, but surely, "What do you mean?"

She grabs the remote from the table and flips on the TV, setting it to a low drone. Apparently she's already finished with this conversation. "Well, her college boyfriend was a basketball player. Drafted right after his first year. They stayed together, but he ended up cheating on her as soon as he made it to the big leagues," she says, sounding very flippant about it. "Short story is it went viral because his side chick was some famous instagram model. I think they're still together."

He arches a brow, "And Rin--"

"--his entire team blackballed her. A lot of the industry too, though they probably wouldn't admit it. Optics, right? This cover story probably would've restored some of what was lost," she goes on, frowning. "But it's really fucked up, isn't it? She's the one who got cheated on and she's the one who ended up suffering."

"But I don't understand. Why..."

"It's easy for someone to say she doesn't take her job seriously because she ended up dating an athlete. That she's just in it to mess around." Sam hugs her knees to her chest, watching the screen, "LA is a big city, but the circles you run with are small," she says. "A bad reputation goes a long way, even if someone is completely undeserving of it."

A pause.

She looks over her shoulder, "But she's made peace with it. She's a better person than I am. If It were up to me--oh shit." She studies the look on his face. "She didn't tell you, did she?"

He looks at his hands, "No."

**

It's quiet in your car.

Too quiet.

Ushijima's always been a quiet man, but he hasn't said a word in the past five minutes and you're beginning to feel like you're having a one-way conversation with yourself that's leading nowhere. "Hey, did you hear me? Goro said I can cover your post-game interview at the Olympics. I might get to be on live TV! I mean, I don't really care about TV, but Scott is a legend--"

" _Rin_." He doesn't look at you, just stares out the windows at the hills of Malibu. "Never mind."

"Um, is something wrong?" You ask, glancing at him before settling your gaze back at the open road where his hotel sits in the distance. "You've been...really quiet."

"It's nothing."

By the time you pull to a stop, he gets out without saying much else. You put your car in park, running to catch up with him, "Hey--what's wrong?"

"It's nothing."

He's icing you out.

You can feel it.

So you reach for his wrist, "Hey, can we talk? I just--"

"It's nothing."

"Why are you doing this? Why are you ignoring me? What did I do--"

"Rin. Enough."

And then you break.

Whatever semblance of sanity you've been holding onto collapses as you burst into tears. And whatever grudge Ushijima's been holding apparently also falls apart when he sees you fall apart because suddenly he's dropping his bags and reaching his arms out to hug you--

"Sorry," he mumbles. "I'm sorry."

You think he's about to comfort you, but when your tears come to a stop, he pulls away.

"We should break up."

You blink.

"W-what? What are you talking about?"

He looks away, "The distance won't work. Your life is in LA."

"But...where is this coming from? We--"

"--it won't work," he says, stiffly. Definitively. The final nail in the coffin because he won't repeat himself again. "There's nothing else to say."

He grabs his bags, turns around, and leaves through the doors of the lobby without another word.

**

The photoshoot goes by unceremoniously.

Ushijima can only make one face, but it doesn't seem to peeve the photo editors, who are content to tell him how handsome he looks--which he is. No one can deny that. But you know that stoic look on his face, and you know something's wrong.

He hasn't said a single word to you since he's arrived. And for what it's worth, you don't say much to him either.

It's only when they wrap things up that he approaches you, but you bounce him by turning to the computer, where your editor is showing you the mock-ups.

"Rin."

You offer him a look, but it's so cold and bereaved of any warmth that he immediately backs off. "Later," you say, and apparently even the poor photo-guy gets a sense of the tension in the room because he immediately stands and dismisses himself.

When the door closes on the way out, you immediately brush away whatever goodwill you have as you collect your belongings. "I don't have much to say to you," you state, and it's true. There's no love here anymore, as you size him up before looking away.

"I'm sorry," he says, grabbing you by the wrist--only for you to snatch it away. "I just want what's best for you."

You're about to offload a box full of profanities and grievances, but the most you do is take a breath, let it out, and look at him with all the hurt in the world. "If you want to break up, just take responsibility for it," you say. "I honestly..." You blink away tears, turning away so he doesn't see. "I don't care anymore."

But that's a lie.

"Have a safe flight home," you tell him, which you mean to come off snarky and cold, but just comes off wilted and broken instead.

It just hurts too much to admit it.

**

Into the shower you go, sitting on the tiled floors while the water washes over you from above. It's not the same as having a bath, but it's close enough, sans the clothes that are still sticking wet to your skin. Seconds turn into minutes that melting in an hour as you continue sitting there, waiting for an answer from the universe that never comes.

Soulmates, right? The red string of fate can go fuck itself.

Because this is the same shit that happens every time. You fall too deep, love too hard, and then you're left with nothing. It's the same sad story of the same sad girl. You never learn your lesson.

There's a knock on the door, "Rin?"

It's Sam. She sounds worried.

The door opens and she winces at the sight of you, "Jesus, are you OK? Why are you in your clothes?"

Maybe you're being overdramatic. Maybe you don't care. But as you sit there, ruminating about the affair you had, if you can even call it one, you start to feel numb.

You wonder if this is how mom felt before she took those pills.

"He broke up with me."

"Who--Wakatoshi?"

You don't answer, but that's apparently all the certainty she needs to put two and two together. "Aw, Rin. There's plenty of other fish in the sea. Don't get so hung up on him," she tells you, providing no comfort at all. "Didn't you only know him for a couple weeks anyway?"

 _Yes, but I felt like I knew him my whole life_.

It's quiet, as Sam looks at you--unmoving.

She turns off the water, kneels down before you, just stopping short of getting wet in the tub, and moves to brush away your hair from your face. "I told him about your old boyfriend and what happened," she says, softly. "Sorry. I think it's my fault."

"It's not," you whisper, face completely vacant as a chill comes down your spine. "He already made up his mind."

**

Sam helps you strip and tucks you into bed as you start parsing through the old messages on your phone. Running through the old memories that feel fresh in your mind.

You can still smell him on your bed. He lingers, even though he's gone. You make a mental note to wash your sheets, but the better half of you revels in what little comfort you can glean from it.

Your phone buzzes.

 **akari** : hey! here i am making sure you don't drop off the face of the earth again  
**akari** : taishi and i went to the lake today  
**akari** : we thought of you  
**akari** : he almost got a concussion from one of the carps  
**akari** : [IMG]

Indeed, she and Taishi are swimming in the lake together, having the time of their lives. It's enough to make you smile until you get another buzz. This time, from dad.

 **dad:** Are you eating well?  
**dad:** grandpa and grandma are thinking about you  
**dad:** grandpa's doing well, he's back at home now  
**dad** : We miss you.  
**dad:** grandma says to eat more  
**dad:** LOL!  
**dad:** That means laugh out loud! btw  
**dad:** And btw means by the way  
**dad:** :P

You think about how Ushijima was there for it all--you think about how he'd reacted when you told him about mom. And you think about how he'd fucked the sadness and grief out of you until you were crying for completely different reasons. You think about how he should've just been one chapter in your life, and then--

You think about Bambi and Toto, and the alleyway where you first met.

You jerk up in bed, staring out the window.

**

You're flying down the freeway. Checking your phone every two seconds for a text that doesn't come. Yes, texting while driving is very, very bad but fuck it--you're not thinking straight and you have other, more pertinent issues on your mind.

By the time you get to LAX, you park your car, make a run for the terminal, and get to the nearest operator closest to the door.

"Cheapest flight you have, please."

She blinks at you, "Ma'am--where would you like to go?"

"It doesn't matter. Cheapest flight. Please. Now--I'm in a rush."

She seems to take the hint, burrowing her face in her computer where she prints out a ticket and tells you good luck with a wink before you make the mad dash for the security gate.

**

Once you're past the madness and bustle, you make your way to the screen--where you look up flights to Tokyo before hustling towards the international gate.

It's easy to spot Ushijima out in a crowd.

He's stupidly tall, for one. And he looks like a celebrity, which means people are either crowding him or whispering around him. It doesn't take you long to find him, as he's standing outside the gate, waiting to board the plane on a line that looks like it might take forever.

"Wakat--"

Someone elbows right past you, dashing towards the next gate.

You move to the side, trying to stand on your tiptoes, "Wakatos--"

"Move," mutters another angry traveler, trampling over your toes with his goddamn carry-on.

You stop dead in your tracks and take a breath.

"Oi, _**BAMBI**_!!"

He jerks his gaze around, catches sight of you, and his eyes widen.

You start elbowing past the crowd--he does too, but they disperse before him like Moses and the Red Sea, making you feel very small and inconsequential.

"What are you doing here--"

You slap him.

Someone gasps, " _Oh my god_." They cover their kid's eyes, ushering them to another corner.

It's clearly enough to shock him, what with the angry look on your face and the fist that you're making. "I love you," you tell him--and it's probably the first time you've ever admitted this aloud. In this very stupid grand gesture of faith. Because you do love him and because you don't care if that comes with consequences. "You bullheaded, shortsighted _moron_."

He blinks.

"And I knew it from the moment I met you in that alley," you go on, very aware that other people are staring. "From the moment you called me Toto--I knew."

You knit your brows, eyes welling up with tears, "A cover story? I meant it when I said I didn't care. I have more stories to tell-- _a lot more_." You're thinking about Utsui and the fact that Ushijima had actually went out of his way to read your crap. "And my reputation? Fuck it. That doesn't matter to me anymore either."

And then you pause, looking at him, "I lost you before. And I don't want to lose--"

His arms wrap around you before you get the chance to finish and suddenly you're staring over his shoulder while the crowd around you starts clapping. "Sorry," he murmurs, running his fingers through your hair. "I'm sorry."

"For?"

"Everything."

You relax into his arms while the crowd starts passing you by. Steering clear as you pull back and see that there are tears in his eyes. You could stay like this forever, but--

" **This is the last boarding call for Flight TXVL8 with service to Tokyo**."

You glance at the gate, where the agents are packing up, "You're going to miss your flight," you say softly, ushering him towards the gate.

And when you think you've gotten him far enough, he turns back around and kisses you on the forehead.

"Oi--you--"

And then.

"Thank you for teaching me how to love."

He presses a kiss to your cheek before turning around to leave, and only then do you realize that, oh--

He loves you too.

**

_**2 months later** _

**

“Remember. _Back to you, Scott_. That's your ending line. We need the cue for the transition. It's important. Rin, are you listening? You have--"

"Listen, I got it." You beam, taking your spot in front of the camera while the lights shine on around you. The press room's small and filled with cameras waiting for their chance to interview. "I've been practicing all night. I won't forget, alright? _Back to you, Scott_. Aren't I a natural?"

Your camera-guy, Paul, looks unimpressed, "When the red light turns on, that means you're live, OK? Scott's going to give you the signal in your in-ear piece, and that's when you start."

"Got it."

"And don't forget your last line--"

"I won't--jeez. Have some faith."

Speaking of faith.

Ushijima appears in the doorway, covered in sweat. Instinctively, you stand a little straighter as he makes a bee-line for your corner, where the camera's set up.

Your heart nearly bursts at the sight of him. You haven't seen him in two months, but he looks the exact same--which brings you more comfort and warmth that you expect. "Over here," you say, suddenly remembering where you are, what you're doing, and what you're expected to say. You point to the mark on the floor where he's supposed to stand--one foot away from you.

He obeys, smiling at you with all the adoration in the world, "You look pret--"

Paul motions to the camera, "We're live in three." 

He makes the hand motion with three fingers--then two--then one.

The red light turns on and you can hear Scott's voice bellow in your ear.

_**"And to our on-site reporter, Rin Nakajima..."** _

"Thanks, Scott. I'm here with Ushijima Wakatoshi--the ace of Japan's National team--who's just come off hot off his win in the preliminaries against Team Argentina. How do you feel?"

But he's just staring at you, eyes blown with warmth and joy. Like you're the only thing in the world he can see right now. Like--

You clear your throat, hoping to break that reverie of his, "Wakatoshi-kun, how do you--"

He pulls you in and presses a kiss to your cheek.

"I love you," he whispers, so softly only that you can hear, and when he pulls back, he presses another kiss to your forehead before turning away and leaving.

You look back into the camera, stunned.

And the words roll off your tongue with absolutely no resolve as you stare at the red light, "B...back to the studio with you, Scott."

Paul purses his lips, shrugging, "Well, that's definitely going viral."

**

_**5 months later** _

**

'Bambi and Toto and the Red String of Fate.'

You look at the cover and smile.

"I couldn't get you the real deal -- the higher-ups didn't want to deal with having a conflict of interest on their cover," says Goro, sighing on the phone. "But I had the graphics guys do a mock-up. They gave me hell for it."

You laugh, looking at the picture that grandpa took the night you and Ushijima went to the summer festival. You--in that pretty yukata with all those golden deer prancing across your chest. "Well, it looks really nice," you say, leaning against the wall of your veranda.

"Thanks, it cost me 20 bucks." He pauses. "I really fought for your cover, you know that?"

"I know."

It's quiet, as he hums softly, the sound of children laughing in the background. "When you handed in your resignation letter, a lot of us were surprised," he says. "Honestly, it blindsided me a little too."

"Sorry." The winter wind seeps through the air, as you roll over on your stomach, worming your way towards the kotatsu. "I wanted to tell you earlier, but I'd decided to move back to Japan."

"No shit." You can practically hear Goro smile on the other end. "When do you leave?"

"I'm...actually already here," you say, turning on your back to look at your ceiling. "I'm home."

"Ah, any reason why you left so quickly? Might it be because of your boyfriend?"

"Well, he's part of the reason."

"And the other?"

You smile.

"Had a project I wanted to work on. Several, actually."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah...hey Goro?"

"Mm?"

"I wrote a book of short stories. Would you wanna read it?"

"It would be my honor."

**

The house on the hill is done.

It'd taken an extraordinary amount of effort -- help from Akari, Taishi, and the whole damn collective work of Murata -- but it's finally done.

And it's a small house--the exterior is traditional, but the inside is completely modern, newly renovated. Three bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, and a veranda just like the one you have at home. For a while, you peruse the halls, taking stock of your work, and admiring all the furnishings that are left cloaked before heading back outside and seeing a familiar face come up the pathway.

Ushijima.

"Hey, you're late."

He picks you up, spins you around, and presses a kiss to your cheek that inevitably devolves into a dozen wet kisses to your forehead, your neck, your mouth--

You shriek with laughter, as he whispers sweet nothings into your ear. _I missed you, I wanted to see you, Tokyo isn't the same without you_. All of which brings a flutter to your stomach--all of which makes you swell with joy.

Because you missed him too.

You wanted to see him too.

And Murata wasn't the same without him either.

"We finished the house," you tell him, guiding him to the frame of the doorway as the first snow begins to fall from the sky.

And when he studies the front--completely miffed at how much it's changed over the course of five months--you cock your head at him, beaming.

"It's your home now, too," you tell him. "Okaeri-nasai."

He returns your smile.

You think he's about to play along, as you usher him through the doors, but he just turns around and wraps his arms around you.

"I love you," he says. " _I'm home_."

**

As you wade past the frozen reeds, guiding Ushijima towards the bank where it's frozen over twice, you smile.

The last time you were here, the fireworks had bloomed over the lake, making it look like flowers.

"You were right," he says.

Now the only bloom here are the ice crystals that've formed on the surface, looking like ethereal water lilies.

"About?"

He takes your hand, gives it a squeeze, and looks out at the neverending horizon where the sky meets the ice.

"Murata is the most beautiful in the winter."

You laugh a little, "I'm always right. You should get used to it." And when you squeeze his hand back, you feel a little flutter in your stomach. "It really is beautiful, though."

But he's looking only at you, "Yes. It is."

**

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy fuck we made it fam....
> 
> might pound out an atsumu oneshot that's been on my mind but we'll see.... need to finish hawks.... as well as my madara story..... so much to do...... 
> 
> anyway 10q if u stuck with this :) glad to be finished

**Author's Note:**

> im on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt) if u wanna scream abt ushiwaka wif me....


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